cdlxxxiii. i will be an archive

until further notice.

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.

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.

cdlxxi. poor speaker

i have a habit of mumbling. my tongue grows thick and i myself can hear how, from my mouth, one word emerges indistinctly into the next, like porridge poured onto another shapeless porridge.

cdlxviii. at times

the incomprehensible sounds escaping my lips are in fact the most appropriate things i could possibly say.

cdlxvii. due to the storm

he was off for a few days like before. he will again be if another storm would hit the metropolis.

cdlxvi. social ambitions

i’m doing all the right things, moving in all the right directions, spiraling up all the right circles to my dreams in higher places. the higher i get, the further i have to go.

cdlxiv. writing poems

some kind of hunting has been going on, and it’s the thrill of capture that i’m after, the victory of pouncing on a piece of life, trapping it in the net of language, pressing it down into black and white.

cdlxi. dreamlover

i must have forgotten what i wished for. perhaps it has come quietly.

cdlix. days of confusion

it’s too warm for september. when the sun goes down, it goes fast. i confuse the cream with smoke but no one notices, and no one notices me.