The snow was falling in front of a dark background the contrast pronounced the snow was melting on my skin now looking up I enjoyed it even more like you do in those few first seconds the snow came down alone but together they fell landing on a dark soil were only the first
This house was empty empty for a long time the outside leaked through the cracks the doors never used stuck only the dark attic gave me alone to be with myself
Through the early winter into the long night I survived by the grace of the place I ended hanging by a thread in just enough light for my dying conscious rotten corps the coming spring will never let me bloom again but that is just a fact
The miracle of a lonely street in a busy city
From day today I swing back and forth myself and movement hand in hand the wind in our hair distracts so pleasant but still we don’t know from what Drawing 1998
My frozen face gets stuck in your mind when you see this picture thinking about what you see you forget that this picture was taken in the blink of an eye maybe it was the start of a smile or the end of it think about your judgments they are also taken in the blink of an eye you never know what the second before could have brought
The window I sit behind white wall a door I open twice a day one dark window is still I sleep a house in black and white to cutout
Have you ever stood still while having the thought that there are eight billion people on this earth with eight billion ways of looking at the same world as you do and live in? Eight billion ways to process all of this information and at least eight billion ways of believing what is processed. Eight billion people that, by design, have to experience themselves as the center of their world. Eight billion people conversating with themselves and finding words to decipher their beliefs. Eight billion people who believe that they are alone in the world but still cling to the hope that there is another that will understand...them. Eight billion people that close their eyes every night, helpless like we all are in our sleep. Eight billion people who are only equal in their silence.
A green door on number four with three locks three door bells four nameplates and one mailbox
My façade might look dirty to you
my thoughts inside to dark
~
but you holy man
with your mowed lawns and trimmed thoughts
a fifth column of tyrants disguised
~
you might find the likes of mine
everywhere and detest
pouring your world of petty resentment
into our rejection
~
you might seem to win
for now
and await the return of the heimat
and 1933
but the young of mind will more than ever
forget your past
you
and deny all of us your hateful gods
~
progress is not just a word
an act
or a wish
it’s something that happens
rolling downhill to a better place
I feel safe with you
though I can’t see as far
as when alone
besides you
You can blow a lot of air
or take it all in
~
either way
this way
make sure you never choke
on the never settling dust
Clouds can be so impressive
even if it is the last one you ever live in
I thought it was a throw away day
but then I unfolded it
I feel my free will
but are the wires I pull
stretching out into the world
attached only to what I think is real
~
is freedom not the joy you can have
of fantasizing the world you live in
being a cluster of stardust that can dream
Nochrisis 