missy messing up

- berlin calling soundtrack.
- Mon is a carrier of cruel truth, which she seems to read from my consciousness after my story sketched in just a few sentences. at times all I want to do is to close her mouth with my hand.
- my mother knows my flame. against her upbringing, her habits and all her will, she let my love for women find its way to her awareness. (still, the final remark had to come: "but... that Simon guy... what about him?")
- the belle époque woman embraces.
- the real time woman is being released from my arms.
(however, the two of them are not to be treated as alternatives. two ever so different stories.)
- putting on weight. sweet pastry = comfort.
- for a moment I'd have rather been blind and deaf, only to be able to ignore how things get screwed up, be able to believe we're gonna make it.
- facing severe lack of data I didn't want to make any decision at all. then I provoked events that brought data filled with guilt and meaning. that's already something, huh.
- the height of August, falafel, hummus and ayran on a warm, Sunday street.
- one of plentiful good points of the W city is that you can wipe your tears and blow your nose with it; you can walk away your grief and crying, the city never ends, your sorrow inevitably loses with its hugeness.

night walking

most of all I would like to wrap myself tightly in this August city, let my body become yet another square burnt by the sun every day, deprived of another layer, beaten and swept. I'd like to become this city myself - create possibilities, bring energy, inspiration and shelter. never come to an end. act in a dispersed way, with the responsibility unspecified, but with one strong rhythm.

I keep on searching for a way for us to come true in this big, big city.

sky and sand

love impossible.
love. who you are and who you are becoming is more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. it is the best, the most sophisticated, the most precious human phenomenon.
impossible. we cannot give each other what we both seek. an attempt to reach each other brings grievance, confusion and resentment – and successfully kills the sober perception of the other one's value.
the awareness of your existence makes me utterly happy and at the same time it reveals to me the quiet, painful knowledge of truth so strange and ambiguous that only life in this world could have created it.
August, early morning, your smell still in the air or just in my receptors' memory, I am crying, but if anybody should ask, it's because to see you is to realize how much, how incessantly, how terribly I miss you.