Profound words, hidden in the library. Can you find them? 


death to impertinence and listlessness of life.
revive my salaciousness, over-indulgence and fervor for life.
"But it's too late, I know that it's too late."

Sometimes the hybrid of my minds (the mad and the sane) reach an interlude. The mad one wants to have you, and the sane one says every variation of "NO". 


The Bike Ride

When I left my house, the air was stale—silenced and waiting; for the thunder and rain and the flowers wanted wetness and life and eventually they would continue to bloom and lead mature adult-like lives. The flowers wanted responsibility; they lusted for the air to become stale because they knew what was coming, wetness, the flowers asked for sips of philitre. The Calibrachoa that were potted and perched in the branch-arms of an old oak asked for wetness. The lilies in the cracked soil cackled and threatened to wilt away if they did not get their water. The peonies pleaded for philitre, drops of life, thunderstorms, and a resonant nightmare for the easily stirred. Awaken the earthworms and all variants of summer soils.

The place I live, I have come to realize after the extent of my travels is rather small. You can have the entire city gridded out and constructed like a map intrinsic within the brain. I left the house on my forest green glider-bike at half passed eight on any old night, crossed the train tracks on Kingsway and continued to glide my way throughout the river neighbourhood. It does not take long to see a familiar face, so we stop and hop off our bikes, greeting each other with hesitant yet kindred gestures.  We part ways, I glide towards the river, along the winding road and decide of my own volition to take a wide right, startling a speeding silver vehicle in the near distance pace, for perhaps if she were a bullet, she would be shedding shrapnel and I would see white powder dusting out of the exhaust engine instead. She slowed her pace while I increased mine, continuing the neighborhood glide-about.  On Cordova Street I began to dawdle, as did a toddler and mother on the sidewalk parallel to me, the young girl appearing to be gliding for the first time, on her pink and purple training wheeled bike. She lets out a bellowing “Screeeee” of painfully endearing elation. Her mother has caramel curls, and the small girl has curls of cocoa.  They laugh together, and I glide off towards my home, my backyard, and back into the secluded state of restlessness and anxiety of possessing my future. 


Writing is the art for the madmen, the psychopaths, neurotics, hypochondriacs, perfectionists, drinkers, smokers, lovers, the beloved, the nature obsessed, the cynics, the perceptive, and the truth-speakers and seekers.



this is "hurt"

Do you remember that I love you? What is painful is the absence I feel without you. It is all around me, everywhere. When lying on my bed, I think of us all those months ago laying next to each other. We made plans, talked about our feelings and thoughts. We thought we knew love, each other, and more painfully we thought we knew ourselves. My body aches from wanting you back in my arms. Thoughts place themselves so securely in my mind, thoughts about you—of course, familiarizing themselves with you. When my love grew for you, you and your dark features and soft and illuminated sand-dune skin, I never knew that there was a darkness within you, darker than your chocolate eyes or your coal coloured hair.

Film stills: The Great Gatsby 1974


Being and becoming.

There is no way that I will say that I know truly “What I want”, in almost any respect. I want to pursue happiness: in all sense of the meaning.  Happiness can be temporal (until the craving is fed). And it can be “long-lasting”, and as to what that may mean—I am unsure. Things I wanted last year, of both the standard of myself and out of people have changed—I think for the better, but regardless: my temporalities have altered and become either nonexistent or they are securing an existence within me.  Slowly, perhaps, “I” am becoming “Myself”.

The greater longevity a feeling, event, or presence something or someone has in their life: the more substantial the other becomes, is that not true?

I won’t pretend to understand myself in this moment, or what we were in the past, but what I am highly aware of is the significant presence that you once had within my life. I will not materially list off the most relevant parts of “us” and the strongest/ weakest points we endured: because that is like having wanderlust but suppressing those thoughts limiting yourself to tours of the dark. 

It is true that don’t know who I was or what we were, be it a love or a loss. But what I can comprehend is the sheer mass I feel in my heart/ soul/ and on my mind.

What can you do. What will I do?



Sometimes I just want to know where you are. Am I off the map--of your heart? 



Why were we told of our perfection? We knew of our wondrousness. Why wasn't a love like that worth fighting for? We knew too much. Are these questions forever, unanswered? One can only hope the answer is more than two letters, more than N+O.



Commit, like Françoise, to those two precious hours per day. Perhaps in the morning (the celestial hour)...to the writing of Flora. That seemingly never-ending-never-beginning "novel"idea of a novel.

Listen to the voices of my head, the questions I ask and demand, the sound of anguish, gall repugnance, rain against the house, take it all in, soaking my soul, pouring out of my eyes--down my eyelashes. I won't cry. I will pretend not to miss.


and the complications you could do without
when I kissed you on the mouth


"They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."



Get out of my mind

I like all of your eccentricities 


we only crossed paths

Not quite know whether I'll recover--it seems quite far off, perhaps in another life (like everything else was).  It wasn't forgettable, unnamable: just uncontrollable and finite. You were the sun & I the moon-and although we danced for love and other celestial occasions, we would forever be doing a dance across the sky-apart from one another, rarely eclipsing (agreeing), and not so often would we pass through each other's paths and find that fervent harmoniousness that we both deserve. 

We only crossed paths at dawn and dusk & that was not enough.


I vaguely remember a 4 am conversation about birds and the sun rising--do you too?

all things go

"Drove to Chicago// I was in love with the place-- in my mind."
-Sufjan Stevens

What could be said if you feel as though you've left a part of yourself somewhere else? Speckled across the greenscape/or skyscrapers of a city of immaculate momentum. Like in the belly of some great beast, he is waiting for more, because of his insatiable appetite, but yet the part is ready to be digested--we just need more (I just need more of Chicago).


Off to explore an uncharted city, on my account, under a sunset like this (or perhaps it may rain). Walk the halls of great institutes and universities. Sip the coffee. Eat the pizza. Get lost on some Michigan coastal towns. See you around.


With heat struck afternoons long through 
Those idle dreams go back to you 
Was this only in my head 
Just like most things go misread 
When over-thought

the universe WAS ours

What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe? - Jacques Lacan

(whose book i look forward to receiving very very soon) 
whose life i look forward to observing
psycho psycho analyze 


saying goodbye for somewhile

Setting the goals, even if they are seemingly and absolutely unattainable. Either you can dream about things (perpetually) and never get them, or you can make dreams a reality. If you need me, i'll be in my mind, for sometime. Or lost in the architecture of Chicago, a forest, or a book.

See you sometime.


I've got nothing left except perhaps an old melody playing in my heart. Forget about that, though.


wise words of/ on love

People would never separate from one another if they had real love…
Real love never increases or decreases.

There is no love anywhere. There is no such thing as love in this world. It is all infatuations and attractions. You will realize this right away when someone you love says something negative about you.

Real love is that which does not have any abhorrence behind it. How can it be called love when there is abhorrence associated with it? Love should be unwavering, unchanging.

-The Gnani Purush Dadashri 


spring elevation

I feel the motions of summer swinging forth; with the momentum of a mindfully delicate wrecking-ball. Spring elevation brought me here.


we didn't see eye to eye

"It was hard to tell just how I felt; to not recognize myself. I started to fade away. And after all it won't take long to fall in love, Now I know what I don't want, I learned that with you."

We didn’t see eye-to-eye, we thought we saw thought-to-thought but what I thought was wrong and what I know most truly is that truthfully I was in no way at all connected to you. We didn’t see anything but perhaps aesthetics and fabricated selves, & this is what makes it easy for me to forget  about you. The love I felt for you, only caused me pain; dolorosa and dilemmas are not how we gain.


Spring finals

This is my friend.

And this is me.

This is what we did all night:

Until 7 am.
And then again--until now.

Because it's that last paper of the year you find yourself asking over and over and over
Am I done? 
I want to be.
I don't know if I am.
Should I have more coffee?
I'm exhausted.
Do I need:
A cup of water?
To go for a walk?


hello spring

the last days of spring
breakfasts & books
the yard wakes up?


parallels of the days



Srdce bolet, kava & pracovná.


The city where I live

Is all I need;
In Spring.
even if the buildings look like empty brick cans
cityscapes like calm rolling shore waves

twisted fate

"A man is only as good as what he loves."
-Saul Bellow
Written in runic Futhark

The letters in your name twisted into the ground like the roots of tree (of love).  But caught in a natural(ist) disaster inevitably our love surfaced to reality, above what is real (the earth). And now “we” are gone: alovelost-thatwasonce OURS.


And I will keep going down until my body doesn't ache
Lexical regrets
Blur it out and forget
that I was ever stirred
by this


twin peaks & mountainsides

I could synthesize; or abandon and live on.


spring please come slow, never go

watch the sun rise 
(peach-apricot blueberry with whipped cream cloud spring pie sky)
watch the night fall
(planets--or stars and street lamps)
watch the divine move slow over

spring glow



Your weathered face has me drying, prying at my eyes. I see your love, I see your life gone by. 

"Bellow had already conceived of a novel about a duplicitous marriage. (Perhaps on some level he knew?) But now Bellow had his material in all its incredible salaciousness, and he did not hesitate to use his life (nor the lives of others) in his fiction."  

I once wrote a story, 7,000 words strong, about a girl named Flora and her failed relationship. The inevitable, the doomed. Perhaps on some level, I knew too.