When writers stop writing, the world crumbles. At least mine.

I became a magician climbing with Tiffy. Then I took a wrong turn at ge fork of Henna/Burah. Meandering the dry winter-valley riverbed, waiting for the Calvary to arrive on their revealing horses. Now I aspire to become a free spirit of some necessary kind; or just a mercynary.

I just loudly exclaimed a curse word out loud when I suddenly realized it's almost NINE years since I wrote the first chapter of my still very much work-in-progress novel The Second Voice. Then I felt tears swelling up at the grievous thought that: "I've been dead for at least five years." #azzajono

After being stuck in between for some years I finally got this new pneumatic body. But it seems I'm still stuck on Earth entangled to the flesh-prison of another. So I'll try to do a bit of exploration while I wait to taste the djinn and escatonic drink.

Spending time alone up in the wilderness makes me realize: this is what I need to feel alright – not medications. Away from the city, away from people, I'm beginning to feel the creative spark awaken again. I feel MYSELF awaken again. I've been in hibernation for years now. Something must change.

Mirror Error

look out
look in
surprise
you're not what you think
not what you look like
oh, fuck
reality in error
error in mirror
falling
is my mode of transport

I'm on a long transit period. Like Zeus, or whatever that big planet is called.

When you talk I can not hear my thinking. So please leave some room for my thoughts before I have to answer.

A part of me, found and lost, unholy, raving and unraveling, trying to stitch myself whole, gathering words. Remembering how to breathe.

Years lost now, trapped on an island that almost disappears with the tide every day, trying to reassemble the wreckage from memory but I forgot the shape of a ship.

I am
I am not
I... I'm in between