Jane-W-Doe

Metropola a căpătat un luciu cromat sub ploaia care cade de atâtea zile - O viziune verticală, sfidând gravitația, neputincioasă în fața ploii... Asfaltul respiră aburi ca un plămân uriaș, bolnav, expus. Pietonii se strecoară printre automobile - un carnaval metalic, gri, cu lumini pâlpâitoare - În timp ce reflexii distorsionate îi urmăresc acuzator de pe carcasele chitinoase. Sub pașii lor grăbiți, o lume inversată, nepăsătoare, execută impecabil aceleași mișcări. Am întârziat p

A burning sunrise The eyes catch fire Wash my face in the pond

The moon comforts a wave Before its impending death Upon the shore

Moving out. In the living-room, only the grand piano remains, black and shiny, like an insect trapped on the ground, one wing extended as if trying to fly right before death caught up with it. The sound would be different now with no furniture around, no books to soften the notes, no rug to dampen the low vibrations. I never learned to play and now the piano seems to epitomize the black bulk of my regrets... defiant, untouched. On a whim I sit in front of it. I let my fingers flow as they will, my mind wonders and I drift away for a while. After I don't know how long, I stop. The sound is different in an empty room... and with a trace of exc

I am dying. I am dying and there's nothing I can do about it. I know this, but I refuse to believe that I will just fade away quietly: that when I'm gone and when those that knew me are gone, that there will be nothing more of me in existence. I want to be remembered; I want to make a mark. Is it not the human condition to desire this? I feel that no matter what good thing I attempt to pursue, it takes me somewhere that I had never intended to be, and that much further from my goal. Every consequent step taking me further down a tangential path I never consciously made. I have two hands and a voice and the knowledge of how to use them, but I

I tried to paint her I had already set the background the cold and warm colors, the surroundings, the atmosphere, the light, the soothing feelings, the sheets on the bed, forever unmade, a plate of fruits on the nightstand... but then she left and all I have now is a fresh painting d'une nature morte with a plate of fruits on the nightstand, the tortured feelings, the atmosphere, the dust, the cold and distant colors, the surroundings, and her form, imprinted in the sheets on the bed, forever unmade...

I have a black old sweater some of you may know it you've seen me wear it so many times, too many... some might say. it has a few holes the sleeves are almost falling apart there's a pink decolored spot on the left side, near the stomach, where bleach fell on it. but it's my favorite sweater and I still wear it very often in fact I'm wearing it right now while I write these lines and though I don't attach myself to things there are some that no matter how much you try you can't completely replace and you will always love and you will always miss after they're gone

When you live so long among dreams, they start shaping your reality When you live so long without... reality shapes you

And once again this morning I have succumbed to sadness For much too long been blinded By hopes of the divine. And on this cruel morning I see, despite your kindness, That I was always yours, but you were never mine.

Aș fi vrut să te întâlnesc într-o primăvară luminoasă cu cireșii în floare sub un cer albastru și înalt. Aș fi vrut să te găsesc înainte ca toate războaiele să sape brazde adânci în fruntea și sufletul meu. Aș fi vrut ca rănile-mi toate să fie închise și când mă zgârii noaptea pe spate să trasezi dâre noi pe o piele fragedă. Aș fi vrut ca tu să nu-mi fi simţit mirosul de tranșee, de închisori, de frică și sudoare, saturate cu sân