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We sprawled on the grass like waves of the universe while death stood above us in a sparkling robe. Warmly he caressed our cheek and sung; I'm ready when you're ready. Forever simply cannot wait, for when we die we are not soil in the ground but stardust amongst galaxies upon galaxies. Oh what a beautiful privilege it is that many are so afraid of- not peaceful death itself but the unimaginable eternity thereafter. The strands of the sky, the bleeding rain, the blowing leaves and painful love, this is what become of those who fear not. These are the ones who jumped off the highest pyramids of the world and yelled I AM INFINITE.

She sat in these tangle of thorns and cried tears of blood while pain oozed out her skin.
Into the earth she sank, beyond light, beyond reason,
far down to a place where she will never be found again.

Do you remember when the blood dripped from our fingernails and we painted the piano red. And I held your sweet soul inside of me as the chords struck like thunder and the window glass shattered; diamonds, golden. Swimming in blood, when will it end. Do you remember when our ribs intertwined, the fleeting warmth. ‘When you fall, I fall.’ And we danced between the moon and the blowing leaves, held up only by the thinnest of red ribbons, forever twirling; farewell fair skeletons- may you never return.

feather bones grinding in the wind
a gentle promise-- creates black holes
where they cry help me help me
there there there
i die
in painful peace

'Why do people have to be this lonely? What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking for others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the Earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?'

Vladimir

'All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other: hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh.
There, on the soft sand, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: his hand, half hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer: then, my opalescent knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other's salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still clawed at each other , could bring relief.
I leaf again and again through these miserable memories, and keep asking myself, was it then, in the glitter of that remote summer, that the rift in my life began.. The days of my younger youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.''

That smell; that smell of dewey grass and rusted swings. The hours spent on my roof, dreaming, feeling the winds' embrace, giving the stars absurd names and stories. My mum's moth-eaten wardrobe. And lipsticks from the 80s. The way my dad stares into space when he listens to Bach; Chopin. The way my sister's benevolent soul radiates through her skin. Coffees on corner cafes. Endless cigarettes. Meeting someone for the first time and noticing the littlest things, like, their widows peak or chewed down nails, the way they long to be heard, or unseen. Bodies. Yours on mine. Mine on yours. Our naked skin touching and new and exciting and the hairs on your arms are tickling my chest. The sound of a piano key amongst a sea of silence. The sound of tears hitting the floor. And all the wonders of the universe that live both within me and yet so far away that I am both everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Things I will miss

I am a ghost.
I drift alone.
So alone.
I never talk or laugh or know how to do either one.
Will you wash the dirt from my hair and dress me and hold my hand.
I cannot hear or see or feel colours anymore.
My father says I stare a lot- 'those muddy brown puddle eyes'- he likes to say.
Can you fathom how truly unhappy I am.
My sadness is a monster that sleeps in my bed.
It pulls out my hair and rips my limbs apart and then it eats my brain for dessert.
I am a hollow vessel.
I am an addict.
I am completely mad and I never wear socks that match.
I am 1000 different people.
I am no-one.
I will never be affiliated with other galaxies.
I am an un-opened book left for mould.

"Sumire was a hopeless romantic, a bit set in her ways - innocent of the ways of the world, to put a nice spin on it. Start her talking and she'd go on nonstop, but if she was with someone she didn't get along with - most people in the world, in other words - she barely opened her mouth. She smoked too much, and you could count on her to lose her ticket every time she took the train. She'd get so engrossed in her thoughts at times she'd forget to eat, and she was as thin as one of those war orphans in an old Italian film - like a stick with eyes. I'd love to show you a photo of her but I don't have any. She hated having her photograph taken - no desire to leave behind for posterity a Portrait of the Artist as a Young (Wo)Man. If there were a photograph of Sumire taken at that time, I know it would be a valuable record of how special certain people are. "

Murakami

 Here are the thorns in my heart. Magnifying glass in one hand. Tweezers in the other. Rip. Rip. Rip. No more heart left.

"It's the people you are close to, the ones who love you, the  ones who have seen your heart, who have touched your soul- to them, it's obvious that something is wrong or missing. Your heart and soul are missing. They feel it. It hurts them. It kills them."












Oh God, I am so so sorry