Novi_sad

Cursed prayer.

The day before yesterday: The sunflowers were taking photographs of the bone of despair. Yesterday: The swallows were kissing the cactus in the mouth. Today: A baby is cycling on an aircraft carrier smiling against the noisy airplanes before taking off.

This is a digital nostalgia, a rhythmic fall:

There is nothing to learn, there is something to give.

There is nothing to see, there is something to touch.

There is nothing to teach, there is something to share.

There is nothing to say, there is something to smell.

There is nothing to cut, there is something to hold.

There is nothing to remember, there is something to respect.

There is nothing to forget, there is something to conceal.

There is nothing to love, there is something to caress.

There is nothing to believe, there is something to grab.

There is nothing to sermonize, there is something to underpin.

There is nothing to protect, there is something to destroy.

There is nothing to regret, there is something to miss.

There is nothing to miss, there is nothing to miss.

There is something to touch, there is something to love.

Electrocuted star splinters making time subservient.

The plants –according to Aristotle – are animals with their head into the ground.
According to Machiavelli there are 3 types of brain[s]: those who understand in their own, those who need somebody else to patronize them and explain them and those who never understand. For Plato, writing is aid/medicine because it represents speech but it is also poisoning it because it guides it to death.

Today, I ate the chaos. Sometimes, the human arm is like a bazuka! It functions like an underground fire. My head is buried and the fire is burning.

A stubborn cigarette in between sleeping is the triumph of defeated.

Neque hic vicus, neque illic mortus (neither here alive, nor there dead).