the next move is you

thisiswhatdrivesmemad. everything means something but it does not. meanings devoid of meaning, communication without message. take it and put it where you like, fill it with your choice, serve as you wish: neat, on the go, bottoms up and leave it. our cognacs in our hands, i said: it tastes like caramel to me, funny how people hate it. so my head was someone else's. i did not want to think of the calories or my liver for that matter. to stay in the moment is such a grim advice and of course i was chain smoking, and everything was so lucid; can be reduced to a game of chess and it all depends if it is check or stalemate. such diplomats.

mythology

tell me: why do we keep doing the same mistake?

night and day

days consisting of persuasions. i can do that, i can do this, i will, i won't. waking up i choose to tell the same words like a prayer. i know, what i want most is not to appear, disappearance as a means to live. i want to be anonymous, not belonging, be here now, be there later. i hate to talk and loathe to listen.  the taste of teardrops never change and i've stopped measuring distances with a ruler. writing is such a bore so i

enjoy!

-keyword: intimacy. or the lack of it.-

i've always imagined this perfect circle, drawing itself times and over again, a circle whose line is getting darker but never thicker. would this connote fragility? everything is easy to break but here comes intimacy: our rival, the antihero.

oh how i loved that closeness, bursting like bubbles in soda. wanted to drink and devour, not thinking and thinking it all. harbouring all those oppositions and be content. that was it: intimacy, that old bitch.

does it get over, will we get over, when is it ever over? i could not tell, i over thought, i slept and ate and read, like a baby well fed. the problem remained with that great formula and the numerics added up to letters, forming the word i n t i m a c y, that old cunt. gush your inners all over me.