scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

18.8.14

breathe, and let the light fill my lungs, my chest, clean, cold water. i write in circles and talk about the weather. You can't see your hand, six inches in front of your face: i remember those days. bad days, i tell you wut. They were all in paris, all together, all the expat-Modernists. have u sen paris? The other stack of younger ones in new york in the eighties, in the nineties, bits of talent getting tangled and angry in each other. Vultures, vultures everywhere, and what looks like huge bats. They must be everywhere now. echo echo echo

Labels: writing

scrawled @ 16:28

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11.8.14

serbia is beautiful

who knew? the mist rising off the river between the hills - the sunrise, the sunrise!, the little fishing boats and people swimming in the eddies and a great loaded ship going upstream - they must have come through the eiserne Tor in the night. imagine those pale cliffs, at night, and a boat like this. A tree, a whole tree, in the middle of the well-grown Danube, floating serenely down between the little wavelets. The mountains in a row, the spine going along into blue ... the old Soviet hotel at the top and i swear on anything i have been here, i have seen all this in a dream, i know this room and its clouds and its windows and i can see Romania ... Ice cream by the riverbank, obviously.

Labels: travel

scrawled @ 22:09

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