I Allow me to dis­agree. The first presen­ti­ment is not shame – noth­ing com­mit­ted, noth­ing to be guilty for. The first presen­ti­ment is an unac­count­able loss, a feel­ing that there is some­thing that was sup­posed to be done some­where, a for­got­ten task that we may or may…

From the train, the only dis­tin­guish­able life is mani­fes­ted through the unend­ing clotheslines, and the cars left lying care­lessly and haphaz­ardly around the deep scars human­ity calls roads. Through their clean wash­ing, I pry into their back­yards, and on into their…

I am weird des­pite a lack of defin­i­tion for nor­mal­ity. My mother says I am organ­ising a revolu­tion. My friends say: enough of the exist­en­tial­ist crap. I take pleas­ure in the fact that the integ­ral of d(cabin) over cabin is a house­boat and that there exist in this…

I am sure they missed my word of thanks, Or mis­in­ter­preted it, which comes, at the end, To the same thing. Both their faces were Pic­tures framed in grey, and every memory Had etched itself a line on the leather-smooth Canvas. One looked out the window the whole Way…

Out of the dark­ness, a tunnel has been chis­elled. Painstak­ing and heart-rend­ing, over the years, from the inside out. Slowly gently, the water begins to trickle from the dam Aiding in its turn the excav­a­tion; car­ry­ing twigs and mud and gen­eral debris into the light,…