Days are the carcasses of time:dead copies of how I hoped they would bethat piled up while I dreamed of freedomand freedom dreamed of me. I am in love,but I do not know with whom or what;it is getting dark and once againnothing and nobody has arrived.Tomorrow I will leave this hopeless hope –an unhappiness… Continue reading The Art of Change

SPINNING BLUE CIRCLE In memory of my mother A craving for meaning bled from your eyes, but the zero and one of life and death were temporarily stuck in between. At the sour grey end of this afternoon you lived in a distant dimension, holidaying on another planet where you lost your money and passport… Continue reading Spinning Blue Circle and Rue Menard