Books and traveling. Drugs for the soul.
How would it be if all our memories came from the future and we could only speculate about past events?
Wounds heal. The fear remains.
What is the logarithm of your most secret desire?
Black stones sinking in an emerald pool.
Aren’t worker bees banned from eating royal jelly?
If only Marx had lived in a hive.
As a kid, did you ever suspect you were an alien, because your breath sounded louder than other people’s and your eyes didn’t blink?
They thought I had an eye infection. At least I didn’t asphyxiate.
Why does no one make pianos with multicoloured keys?
Fight for your rights to simulated synesthesia.
Does the spirit fly when the body falls?
Religions seek to defy gravity. And fail.
Shouldn't those, who believe life is serious, find dying hilarious?
Tickle yourself to death.

She hid her head under the covers, creating another illusion of safety. I’d like to tell you…it doesn’t matter. Why do my thoughts keep moving backwards, dwelling on places I thought I’d managed
to escape from?

Worship of the Unreachable never ends. Without it, our bodies
would grow cold, our minds would become sterile. For everything
you seek but cannot touch, imagination conjures a million different depictions of attainment. What you manage to get hold of leaves you tired and insatiable.

Yet you’re a part of this as much as I am. Not letting the flame become a fire, whilst making sure it’s kept alive. Discreet
reminders. Every now and then. So that you, too, are caught in the web. I’ve come to believe you never meant to hurt anyone. You
were just carelessly pulling strings, like a child lured by the arcane mechanics of a toy-car.

You set the rules of the game. I follow course. Torturing myself. With bittersweet droplets of hope. Writing it all here, taking the risk, so that you might find out and back away. In fear, repulsion or indifference? I do not really wish to know.

What will it lead us to? Not much, I’d say. Time will take its toll, healing wounds, replacing old disappointments with fresh ones.
Little of you and I will remain in the realm of memories.
There was never a lot to begin with.

Still, I shall drink from this glass again and again, for as long as I can make it last. Flickers of creativity are not easy to find these days- better stick to what you’ve got.

Silence. Crumbling words, tired and worn out from overuse.
You 'd like to write something original, something no one has ever said before. Instead, you keep repeating the same ideas, phrase
after phrase. Inspiration used to be a current, an unstoppable waterfall. Now it resembles a drying well; you sweat for a few
drops of muddy water.

Bouncing moods. When you become accustomed to crying in
public places, deceiving yourself that you’re safe and invisible in the merciful embrace of anonymity, it's time to take a look around
and ask your self “what am I doing here?”. Expect no easy answers- or, rather, do not expect any answers at all. The question was
purely for exercise purposes. Rhetorical. Irresolvable. Wipe those tears from your eyes; no one shall take pity on you. You don't
deserve it, anyway.

Memories of a winter afternoon. Do you remember, I think I played my part well. I kept smiling. Afterwards my lips hurt from the effort. A performance of strength and spiritual greatness. It almost worked. If only you hadn't looked at me this way. What did you see, I wonder. Why do we continue this struggle of wills? Let us celebrate our immaculate ignorance.

Silence. I could have told you how it feels to fly. You didn't need my interference. Dancing in 87 dimensions constitutes a challenge of sorts. But no, you are the master of the deck, you've always known why the sky is blue; my offer was of little value. In other words, hope has began to stink of rotting allibis. A new sense of direction would be greatly appreciated.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our world of poetically futuristic piracy. Please follow the rules. Scan the horizon for abandoned promises. The winner earns a trip to the valley of madness.

Isn't it strange, and sometimes sad, how certain people slip in and out of our lives like shadows; words exchanged, faces seen and then gone, never to come back. It would be a lie to say I haven't consciously cut contact on more than one occasions- a coward's response to all that scares or makes me uncomfortable.

I remember mornings and evenings spent with persons I haven’t seen since. Some were strangers, others I used to call friends. I let them tell their stories, laughed at their jokes, listened to their music; we got drunk and high together, watched sunsets and sunrises, swam in moonlit seas; we explored caves and hollow trees, walked for hours in deserted cities, carved pumpkins for Halloween; we stumbled upon great discoveries, made up our own songs and words and proverbs...

Most were nice to me, and I just smiled, saying nothing, for what was there to say? I stayed up for hours and watched them sleep, convinced there wouldn't be another night, knowing I' d have to leave tomorrow, without saying goodbye, unable to even conjure a convincing excuse. No, I did not really deceive them, I do not think most of them were even remotely affected by my inexplicable behaviour- I'm not that important, after all.

Thus, it is not guilt that makes me talk this way; it is nostalgia mixed with grief and a hint of regret, for the wasted moments more than anything else. Wasted, because we then had to deny them, to cover them with weak arguments and misleading alibis, so that we wouldn't have to recall the broken promises, the abandoned plans, the shared illusions; so that we wouldn't need to remember that this is meant to happen again and again and again, and there is nothing we can do about it except maybe be more honest next time and braver, too.

I adore buses- the tube is way too stressful and loud. I like to sit
back and relax, listen to music, check out the people around, play little games trying to guess details about their lives by simply examining their shoes, hairstyles or mobile phones.

Sometimes I’m inspired, images flashing before my eyes at the speed of light. When possible, it's wise to note them down before they move on to the next passenger. Writing makes me dizzy, but I choose to accept it as a prerequisite of the creative process. The bus keeps moving, and the mind continues its parallel journey…

What do cats think when they sit on trees, roofs and balconies, looking down? Are they contemplating suicide? Reflecting upon the utter futility of human actions? Killing time? Why do they love to sit in the sunshine, eyes closed in an expression of pure, lazy joy?
What do they see when they stare at us? And what do we truly
see when we stare back?

Why do certain individuals' eyes seem as if they’re hiding more depth than the rest? Why do they make you feel as if they’re x-raying your brain with a simple glance? How can other people know you all your life and still be unable to comprehend your inner logic?

What do embryos see when they’re dreaming? Where do dreams go when they end? Are they stored for future recollection? Gone forever? Could they perhaps be recycled, or even reused? So that, when we meet someone with whom we’ve unsuspectingly shared a dream, we experience this moment of revelation and spontaneous nostalgic understanding - which only lasts as long as a dream...

And winter passed us in full speed, like a surrealist’s dream: blurred, mildly unpleasant at times; not terryfying but somehow confused and occasionally incomprehensible. It pushed and pulled and turned us around, a tidal wave of the mind. Yet now spring has come, with it’s changing weather and miserable spells of hay fever, and it feels as if something is about to happen. Something fresh, miraculous and unexpected. Or maybe not..

Don’t blame me, I just work here. What would be your explanation for all these sudden coincidences, small but unmistakable as such. This time, I didn’t even go fishing for them. What I did was welcome them as signs for better times to come: as heralds of a powerful explosion, or at least a miniature firework, to break the dull procession of indistinguishable days and nights.

It needn’t be extraordinary or unique; Im not concerned with it’s nature or origin; all I want is to be engrossed into an ultimate and all-consuming impression of substance, an essence of meaning, an ideal, an ingeniously and paradoxically convincing metaphysical plan of sorts… In other words, my spirit is off hunting for the Adventurous, the Ephemeral, the Outrageous, whilst my body struggles to complete everyday tasks.

Oh well, isn’t it natural to long for these intense, strange and familiar feelings, which make life spicier, more traumatic and adorable than it normally is?

They drew a circle of flowers, then lay down inside it, curled up like kittens. The trees held their breath, so as not to wake them, and the forests' creatures guarded their sleep. At night, the moon watched them and wept- for they were children of the future, already let down by today. Rain fell, washing their scars away, but the the wind tore their clothes in pieces and filled their ears with sand from all the world's deserts.

Seasons came and went; winter saw them covered in snow; birds made nests in their hair during spring; the summer sun burnt their skin mercilessly; in autumn their dreams smelled of falling leaves. Spiders wove intricate webs between their fingers and over their eyelids; plants spread their roots beneath them; snails left glistening trails on their necks. In time, they were unrecognizable, two tattered statues almost invisible in the green twilight, and even the stars took them for dead.

Yet they were only asleep, waiting -patiently, long past caring- for a day when the tide would turn and they could walk away from their wooded island, that heavenly prison they had chosen as shelter for their defenseless bodies, whilst their spirits wandered on the twisting path to oblivion and all-defying hope...