The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Do you hear me, Butterfly? Miles to go before you sleep.

I feel as if there are rivers running through my veins. Or perhaps my veins are rivers. Suffice to say that I love watching and browsing pictures of woods as they always remind me of that line from “Death proof”. I watched it three summers ago. Now it’s november and there are lots of cats around here. They hide behind bushes and sleep on car tops after midnight. They never make a sound.



Lilybird and the Trust Fund Kid // Tim Kasher

Because her heart still aches for something great
Though she’s not sure what that is
Something sacred, something sacred

And I know just what they want
And how bad they want it
I’m taunted by those same demons
Though I can’t put my finger on it

You and me, we’d do anything for
Something sacred
Yeah, you and me could make anything 
Seem like something sacred
So I won’t extend my disbelief for 
Something sacred
I haunt these city streets searching for
Something sacred, something sacred

Cold and catatonic

High without hopes, as loud without sounds or highlighted without paint. Either way it doesn’t make any sense and fighting it only feels like an unmade bed, a broken heel or a piece of glass in the foot. Like colours that don’t match and never will and birds that sing endless choirs of misspelled words. And the misgivings, the disillusions, the desecrations, the disabilities, disaffections, disappearances and disappointments. The disarmament that can only be discerned throughout disbeliefs and disconsolation. I am now disconnected. 


Usually I get out of bed without any thoughts at all. I just get out of bed and that second, I’m not thinking. At anything. At all. Today I engulfed about thirty thoughts per second, on that second and now they seem as if hanging under the sun, getting ready to dry and start walking on their own. The thought of a film noir, of a black cat, of a starry night, of a teacher, of a cup of cafe au lait, of a child, of piles of books, of a river, of a concert in the open air, of an open grave, of a redundant question, of a stupid memory, of a fucked-up remark, of my unfinished book, of my unsubmitted essays, of unwritten applications, of lost trains, of astute paintings, of Vienna, of butterscotch, of Cocorosie, of ashy rail-ways, of coaled pencil lines, of blank paper-notes,of Schopenhauer, of a black mill, of how all the songs now seem to fit, of Brod and her a hundred or so types of sadness, of my long-lost confidence in everything, of my dying dog. And they queued.

Nox Arcana

Temples topple faster than the caterpillars that circle poisonous mushrooms. Whether it aches, whether it sounds melodramatic or whether it’s painted in polichromatics, it doesn’t stop the flesh from monochroming. No ‘it’ breaks such boundary. It’s dark.

As human eyes turn to tetrachromacy, cross roads break in synesthesia. Left goes right and right goes left and there comes the third path that circles the first two. It’s made of ashes and broken dolls and uses Eco’s six walks to follow the narrative to set the disillusion. Soon, left will meet a piece of a broken doll and eliminate itself, for once meeting the path that circles the cross roads, any other path becomes irrelevant.

Right lingers for a while behind trees and lakes, staring at the mushrooms as big as Carol depicted them. But soon it intersects the ouroboros and dies in illogical, breaks the algorithm and the symbolic mathematics. All the rights will fade and so will all the lefts. No cross roads, no crossing paths, no intersections, no drawing lines, no cognitions. Just the snake. And the snake lingers itself behind trees and lakes, eating the big mushrooms without a blink of the eyelidsless eyes.

Laurie Anderson, Homeland (2010)

I like Laurie Anderson. I like her for the psych trip in The Beginning of Memory, in which ‘The thing was there was no place to land/ because there was no land./ So they just circled around and around, / because this was before the world began’, for the almost indigenous tune of Transitory Life, the mixture of violins, cellos and accordion in Strange Perfumes, then for the off-topic commercials-related electropop in Only an Expert, and other reasons. Many reasons.