new beginnings

hours before me, endless lights on the water, and stars that gleam like wet stones. hot thick air falls down my back and wrap around my legs. is it that time of year, let it stay. I carry stones in my hands,

unbearably light.


The time is the key

When do you know you’re actually insane? Is it when you’re aware of it, or when you’re not?

I open the same doors every day, my ankles are sore, my knees are sinking to a concrete ground, or is it sand. My everlasting wish that no one shall enter. And so I bend up my jaw, form a dubious grin.


Francesca Woodman

you think you’re in control. then you’re dragged out and down under, scraping your knees against the rocks. the black folds of childhood has turned into sharp sapphire spears that press against my rib cage, crumpling lungs like paper.

above, just a muddled roar.


Helmut Newton, Self-portrait Hotel Bijou Paris (1973)

the streets are different: after a winter of sleep without dreams, I drink the air greedily and talk to strangers. I watch the wickerman burn on top of the hill as the sky burns with it, touching on the limits of being, touching death at sunrise.

I pick wood anemones and hold them in my arms like a skew-eyed mother. In the mornings I implode suddenly and without warning.