nothing to lose

when it's past midnight, fearful sorrows rust and tongues sharply halt with nothing, nothing at all at the sleeves of darkness

on writing

i'm not sure what i'm waiting for: perhaps some ancient writing recipe that will quench my lisping letters; for some shadows to disentangle and awaken a deep and sleek silvery dance across the screen; for a sober wind to lift me up and out of these limping, listless nights; for the lonely lights to catch the running stranger who cannot remember my name; whatever it may be, i need to write.

the impluse to push

melting words leave behind only an outline of a vague figure that i saw for the first and last time moving away as he followed my hands.

human error

i heard their testimonies: how their lives were carved by ancient darkness, that they slept on stones shrouded by tales of deceit and dishonour, that they bathed in the hum of tear drops. then their whispers came to an end, and we found foreign sounds escaping temporarily--laughter.