There’s a thin line between what I’ve lost and what I’ve never dreamed of...
subjects in arms
I’ve got history by the balls/ It cries for help and no one hears/ Sounds it makes are inaudible/ to those with dirty, selective ears./ Fierce and witty, lucky charm/ I’ve got it roughly by the hands/ Learned to flirt with it in arms/ Learned to use it time again./ I’ve let words do all the talking/ when the eyes, they look outlying/ There’s a truth to every warning/ There’s a lie to every...
would you believe something so magical, something so pure and unreachable coming...
thedefinitivealice: ‘We are such spendthrifts with our lives. The trick of living is to slip on and off the planet with the least fuss you can muster. I’m not running for sainthood. I just happen to think that in life we need to be a little like the farmer, who puts back into the soil what he takes out.’
What is not here.
The quiet despair, the hopelessness. The end of a rope that does not do justice, it’s all here. All in here. The very dark secrets that seem so natural, that live and breathe like you and me, it’s all here. The sense of calm, limitation, tranquility that you insist on embracing, it’s all here. Do you know what is not here? Me. I’ve been gone for the past years, for the last days, for the fading...
Mind me, I belong in quiet places. Quiet corners of crowded cafes sitting...
the way in
I walked through the drizzle that now seemed more like a cold rush of wind against my pale and absolutely virgin skin. I had not a touch of mascara to my name and my old jeans and faded black fake leather jacket seemed to give in the amount of money I had saved in my bank account. The conversation of the day before reminded me of my naive and inconstant honesty: I had mentioned the words...
How long can I stay in this nowhere café, ‘fore night turns into day. I...– Bob Dylan
the flickering flame burning bright on the crack of a spring afternoon, the very...
they love him. in the hopes he will touch them and treat them the way he touches and treats his guitar, they wait for him, only to discover that the truth is… absolutely different. the light softly brightens his skin… the glossy lips - wet from so many careless words and angry movements thrown against a wall of illusion - and the sweaty and intense facial expressions are also...
the man of my dreams and olives
Camille told me that, she knows about her man. - What man? I asked, the man of my dreams is what she answered. “When I meet the man of my dreams, he’ll be eating an olive. Black, green, stuffed or not, he’ll be mentioning how much he enjoys it, how the flavor of this strange fruit intensifies his pleasure in living. His fingers will be oily, his lips wondrously wet. His eyes?...