cdlxxxii. being heavy

writing is a way to bring the words heavily onto the page slightly nervous from their birth.

cdlxxxi. where it starts

the way one goes nowhere important. your voice is so vibrant, like a child’s, taking words for the playthings they are. from nowhere but the sky you see daily, the beginnings come circling like birds.

cdlxxx. in the dream

i buried my heart in a patch of dirt, in the middle of a sun-scorched field, left it there, never to return.

cdlxxix. memory

you don’t know how to make up for it.

cdlxxviii. fluidity

time is the water that flows from you, meaningless, washing away the memory of another day. you are alive miraculously, with less things than needed, the hands you dirtied in living your own.

cdlxxvii. evening

when evening comes, we take our glasses, break them, sweep up the shards to break them again tomorrow.

cdlxxvi. silent words

darting in the sun like needles of rain.

cdlxxv. where is your mind in this?

if you are lucky, it is nowhere to be found. just somewhere infinite with all the bellies thrown together. one bone-cracking noise breaks clearly through and no one there to listen.

cdlxxiv. grass

i’ve been lying on the grass, admiring the way one goes nowhere important, only tickling the idea of meeting the sky in the weight of one’s body, there present in no one else’s laziness.

cdlxxiii. blackout

tonight, it will be dark. again. the last candle melts away. there isn’t much to do but to wait.