Self Self Self
cursive, poems, seventies
exhaust smoke and rain
rain on earth
touch me not
rain against trees
Chopin, Brahms, Liszt
large glasses, gloves
stop line racing
high beaming on oncoming high beams
petrol, sound of engines
black and white
rails, train windows
losing the self
The number of questions is always more than the number of answers.
I feel incapable of doing things that are to be done.
I am misplaced, grateful and desperate.
I am hunting for inspiration.
I have grown out of waiting.
I crave for change.
My future is vague, but signals keep pinging.
My emotions have reached a level of saturation.
I have no reasons to live nor any to die.
I have no reasons to explain and no necessities to probe.
My life is a one way road to a dead end.