I knew we were putting our coats on quite early - either by the door or by the season.

Maybe the reason why my dad still sneezes so loud is that he waited his entire life for someone to scream back to him: Bless You.

Putting my bedsheets inside out. Putting a cap on memories, will they dry as flat as my hair does?

I suffer a lot until lights out. And now had to put them back on to write this down. If I did not have to write at all, I would always sit in the dark.

The all-black outfit as “I forgot what I was going to say”.

At least I now have drawers to put my socks in. Nothing is getting mushed or squished or squeezed anymore. Not even your thoughts? Not even my thoughts.

Rhetoric has been a reoccurring word. Maybe because it is changing so much. The rhetoric I mean. What does it mean again, the word?

We should count the syllables, something’s happening there, he said.

Some songs are just too good. Today me and a friend talked about the madness that is love. Or rather the free fall of it all. At least that bit about love is free, I thought, just now, am I still writing a novel? I realized I have always been counting the stars.

Traveling the megahertz today in hopes to bump into you. I found weed over here too. Just need a good scratch on my head

Promise me you won’t feel intimidated or guilty when you see my text messages pile up. We lost the youth to ideology. Looking at my kingdom. Long long stares. Short smile. It doesn’t matter which jacket I put on these days. I only see the color when I look down my arms or my chest. I stopped doing the latter. I have stabbed more hearts than I’ve repaired, and have always wanted to connect things with a ladder.

Today I left petals behind. tomorrow who knows.

Today I walked a straight line. tomorrow who knows.

Today I was in a movie set. tomorrow who knows.

This instead of that, is our reality.

So many deaths we see yet don’t believe in our own. I ask the driver to go slow.

Rent me a car and move me to a different city. Start a voice recording and drop the phone to the sea.

Did I really live where I said I lived?

Just putting things into place and calling it “I did something”.

I was doing yoga to Duval Timothy this morning. May that be the only sin I commit today. After all, after everything, I wouldn’t know which case to close if I heard a big apology.

This eventful thing I had with the cat. The cat doesn't like me, which I understand, like some of my old friends, which I learned to understand. The cat remembered through me everything he doesn't like, everything he was hurt by. But we don't speak the same language so whatever I tell him to convince he will hear high-pitched meows instead. Meows that are not in his vocabulary, maybe he even has a different word for it.
He likes me in the mornings, because I feed him. I, on the other hand, liked you better in the evenings. I have a lot of likeness for myself lately. Letting this transform into whatever it needs. The pen is still not finished and I told you that this was self-sorcery. Perhaps I don't need the cat to like me. But you know often our presence is enough. 

Words on page, cards on table, hands out the pocket, a plane in the air and eyes on the immediate floor. The cat can pursue whatever path. The cat can take all his time to heal. The cat just needs to let me pass the hallway. The pen is still going. What fits in a minute? I'll train in ways I haven't trained in yet. To write lines with an empty stomach. 

I have a theory that there is no hierarchy between a writer and a writer. Between one that holds a pen and one who doesn't.

It’s easy to mistake another’s arms for your own. The threshold before you get sucked in to a hole. Rest, assured. Love is where you place them in your solitude.

I prefer tearing the paper over using scissors. It conveys better why you need it in pieces. Give me a template.

No one cares how you may have saved the world the other day for thirty minutes. How the pen obeys, and the paper controls. Trying to talk. That time for hours I kept the same meatball in my mouth. Where did our memory card deck go?

The underground machine at CERN has been the only thing I could think of in finding a diagnosis. Two atoms fully charged left in a tube without the initial chance at an introductory conversation. Out of will. Powerful and still, CLASH. Clouds of particle. 
I wonder whether also in that experiment, those atoms only lived with the idea of each other, to call that something, a group dynamic, the biggest experiment in the world. 
Experiment with growth. and they shrink. Provided the universe with some golden data and went their own ways to become an atom on the leg of a table again, or on the back of a chair, or of the air in the room smelling of sex and pizza. They must have. 

Things are in place because I put them there. 

Atoms must always have something better to do than to be banged together in an experiment.

Byproduct*

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