It’s Odd How The Only Time You Are Hit With A Profound Feeling Of Despair Or Any Kind Of Hopelessness

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1. Walks alone with no destination where I can gather lots and lots of weeds and ferns and just wander as I please.

2. Keeping all the doors and windows open during rain.

3. Some odd songs that are just so dear and impossibly sweet that you want to throw your arms around them.

4. Old chocolate wrappers.

5. Finding silly notes written in book margins long ago.

J. Estanislao Lopez, "What the Fingers Do" [transcript in ALT]

Evening at the Balcony

I smoke the night from my neighbour's pipe

When the smell of baking bread and piano pieces

Are gone down with the sun, and the cloud creases

Over the sea of mountains where lights rest dove-like

I rise from a wasted pile of blankets and books for a hike

To the balcony. I stop at the corolla vines and stand by,

And wait with the jackdaws until the smoke billows up to the sky.

One night, sharing unseen my neighbour's cigarette

And their voices that lend themselves to a radio babble

I watched a single star warmed by the clouds and space rubble

It fluttered, almost clattered so bright

Its fire spilled and burned the balmy night.

One by one shreds of clouds caught spark and rushed away

And believe me when I say the moon hid under the trees today.

Tonight again, I waited at the moon for the shared smoke

And tonight I found a friend in the fig tree, it spoke

To me as I would have thought it might

But at its wild branches rustling the jackdaws took to flight

Yet alone I wasn't, for the purple tree and I

Could speak as old friends, warming up by and by

It knows now all the stale words and song

That fumes in my head all evening long.

In turn I have mapped out its lost heart.

- pollosky-in-blue

Nothing much, I know, just an old sunset.

I met an old centipede on the terrace today, slowly she crawled up to me. “Isn’t the sky beautiful today?” She remarks. I tilted my head forward and mumbled, “My aunt says she has seen finer ones, over Misty hilltops and pale dawns.”. She smiled, (I thought centipedes couldn’t smile?) “You’ll never find beauty or happiness in anything if you keep thinking there is something better.” Did she sound wistful? I don’t know. We sat there for a while, she crept near me and asked in a whisper, “Will you play something on that old guitar?” “Uh, sure.” I say and pick up my guitar and start strumming an old tune. I kept muting strings and tripping over notes. But as she showed no signs of noticing anything, I continued playing, until twilight gave way to the night sky and the music faded away in discord. “It was lovely”, she said. I raised an eyebrow. “It was lovely.” She repeated, as mosquitoes swarmed over my phone that had lit up at a notification from my math teacher.

Queen of hearts, bows to the fools parade, insanity is a strange thing to take comfort in. ‘Mere blood and bone’ will lure you to depths of life/hell which human hand (only) must (only) touch. Vega of the lyre and bellatrix of the Orion in a dance of lights and life, bitterness sings a frayed melody to the hearthstone, listen to her woebegone voice in the soft refrain, fold away your letters and give away your life, for its not sadness but despair that requests it. Believe in phantoms, and one as old as yourself wants to touch your windows and watch its fragile hands pass through the glass. 

do you ever get that really hollow feeling when you show someone something you like and they don’t necessarily appreciate or like it that much and it’s like you’ve just revealed the secret to retrieve the library of Alexandria to a hunchbacked old woman from the Victorian era who doesn’t know how to read?

October is my empire. Terror is part of me. 一 Tamura Ryūichi

1. Alfonsina Storni, 2. Cy Twombly, 3. William Stanley Merwin, 4. Cy Twombly, 5. Virginia Woolf, 6. Jorge Albericio, 7. Gala Mukomolova, 8. Andrei Tarkovsky, 9. Czesław Miłosz, 10. Andrei Tarkovsky, 11. Thomas Wolfe, 12. Andrei Tarkovsky, 13. Louise Glück