We all have our tasks and they consume us.
But that is fine because we are objects that talk. And that is a fucking miracle.
And, leaves falling. Like leaves falling, things happen and that is it.
Everything is like leaves falling.
If only there was a way to understand time without always returning to fate.
I know things don’t happen for anything. I know there is no such order.
I’m trying to think of becoming, what it can be without its reason.
And I’m not talking about nihilism.
I’m talking about peace in space. Sweet nothingness.
I’m talking about how all things are marked by sensuality.
This yet-to-be-seen space. A future.
Winter on the Beach
In the evening of this heavy winter, when the ground is covered with snow and everything is frozen into stillness, I go out to smoke a cigarette and to watch the red ember pulse
When I was a child my father gave me a book about an Eskimo boy in which every page was blank, the text said things like see the white mountains, see his white dog, and his house made out of snow I loved the game, imagining all that in the whiteness of the pages
In the midnight of this heavy winter, when the arctic winds blow the snow into desert forms, my fingers turn blue and I let the cold wind blow through me
Above my bed there is the white dove that is bleeding from its open stomach because I drew it that way, with stained strips of text falling out from between its ribs
And on my bed there is the white blanket with the blood stains from when my lover fucked me as I bled, as I had asked him to
Once, when we were apart, he sent me a video of a 500 watt bulb turning on In retrospect, it was not the beauty of the light that he was showing me, but the way the light disappeared as quickly as it came, and the way a shadow ghost danced in my retina once we had became strangers