I am traveling in rags. I've been under glass for many months. The evening was consumed, then drowned. A SECOND SKIN, THAT TRACES THE PATH OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

The hare.

The act of looking is never innocent. I am thinking about the act of seeing. I am preoccupied with the gaze. My gaze. The gaze directed at me. Discrete individuals I've met. Everything is represented uniformly: the black cat, the paleness of my legs, the hare hanging from the ropes on my balcony. We will not speak of eating, of tasting now, as it is only sight that concerns me today: the absent condition.

New dawn fades

When she smiled, she raised a hand up to her breast, palm upward with her rings scintillating downward, while she gazed at her companions in apparent amazement. The hand then traveled from her bosom to envelope the valley under her high cheekbone. With downcast eyes she allowed the smile a slow but controlled retreat, as if her lips, that were very red indeed, needed some time to return to their normal stance, lest they be damaged in the process.

Winter molar

I sometimes return to my own blog with the feeling of wonder you get when opening a dusty box in the back of the closet.

No, it's like - a molar in the back of my mouth, that I'm totally unaware of and only my dentist reminds me to take care of it.

No, it's like - a handful of crumpled shopping lists in the pocket of a winter coat. My blog posts are like shopping lists to me.

I see myself under water, blue and twisted, sucked into the mud, soiled and wounded and with my eyes I follow my corpse as it swells and breaks free, floats to the surface. It gets stuck on the hull of a boat, that drags it along over mud and rocks.

Reiteration.

I've been in absolute darkness for the last fourteen days. My eyes are not healing well. I'm so alone it's maddening. Today, I got op with a aching pressure above my sick eye and my head is heavy from lack of sleep. Now that I've moved myself, like everyday, to my dark study, I can feel through the double curtains that it's cold, wet and dreary outside. The wind is tugging at the shutters and blows a melancholy tune down my chimney. With every gust of wind, the rain clatters against the windows.
I try to evoke some of the cheerfulness that I lack, in my cat, and lure her with a peace of string; but she retreats to her warm basket near the radiator. She's cold and sad like I am.

It's not a sexual thing

I'm into girls lately. This morning, as I was on my bike to work, I noticed this woman riding in front of me. It's a very hot summer, she was dressed lightly, in a skirt of some metallic fabric, and a tight red top. She had big boobies, that fascinated me, because of their calm, majestic sway, going from left to right as she rode her bike. I can easily understand why men are so mollified by boobs. The sight of them was just plain beautiful. Even though I never got to see her face, I loved her instantly. It's not a sexual thing. I'm just really into girls lately.