It’s been a long time, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I sort of physically fell down a downward storm that crushed everything inside me but my body, although I feel it in my bones, something has died in me. It’s funny, it’s the first time I write like this, like I’m really lonely, like I’m really alone. Before? Before I was lying, I was saying “oh Lord, I’m so lonely!” But deep in my heart I still knew that someone was listening.

I was still waiting for someone to come to my rescue and hold my hand and hand me her heart and heal me in the end.

But that was a fallacy. Not only on the sentimental perspective, but even in the realm of comradery. Comradery?


You’ve got to realize that no one loves you, and that no one wants you here, or else them too would be penpalling with the stars in longing for an answer. No they don’t. They go about they lives. Pay their taxes, have kids, divorce, then die. That little glow was still very alive within me until that day when I said,

stop, I don’t need you to commit suicide.

And I died, I died to this world, that had never acknowledged me. I died from society and I drifted away not really knowing where to go. I killed that persona, filled to the brim with false hopes, charades and fairy tales, that the grand fakers narrated me time and time again. This is disgusting. Now I know that I am really alone, and that I can’t count on no one,

in three decades maybe they’d dissect my decadence. As usual art critics danse one death too late.

And I’m gone, who can even catch me after I evaporated and bring me back to the pen.

“Personne”, which in French means someone and, nobody.

It’s hilarious, you should laugh, this is what people do when someone dies, they one day smile, then cry, cry, then smile, then die. And people will do the same for them, until there’s no one left.

This man would be the freest man in the history of mankind, he would at length breathe the fresh  air of liberty, before killing himself in his turn. And what did I spoke of a last man instead of a last woman? Well take a walk plebeian.


Love (or something like that)



Memory Flower,


Yesterday for the first time after almost 2 years, I finally just chilled and played video games. It’s not just playing video games that was so healing to me, but simply

the fact of doing nothing dealing with my work and not feel guilty.

That was a first in a long time. I was laying on my bed at an angle that I had never been, and it actually made me disclose a new side of my cupboard-like “room”. That was a thrilling experience. Time flew and after finally completing the mission I was stuck in for months in Hotline Miami 2, I took off bought myself a Brooklyn Lager and ate some fish. That was a great day.

I also had some passionflower tabs, this thing sort of relax me, which is pleasing, but I was expecting it to knock me out. To be knocked down by medication in order to sleep, that is what I needed during my first diagnosed burnout, therefore I thought that it was what I needed now. It wasn’t the case, for I had to dig deep inside of me to find the resource to battle burnouts anywhere, anytime without chemical medication. And this is what I did .

I’d like to say that passionflower has s strange effect on me, it makes my dreams very clear, but not any dreams, the dreams of my past. These pills seems to remove the hazy fog that covered my memories. I wake up realizing that I had erased some people faces, some events and some places from my memory. Or maybe was I thinking about those things every night!

But the agent of repression in my psyche would automatically zap any of my unconscious attempt at remembering the past least I once again fall into the perfumed yet cold arms of Melancholy.

I paused and pondered

Suppressing my past, was it the device I found to keep me moving forward?

I can’t help but wonder. But this pills definitely have had an effect on my memory, that’s why I hereby name them,

Memory Flower.

The funniest thing is that it taste mouldy. Like the face of a haunting ex that you held captive in a memory donjon for centuries.

It has the taste of rotten memories, at least it’s not bitter. How could the sweetest fruit give such a putrid dust, is that after all the real manifestation of “Regret”, this sarcophagus of flavors in the mouth?

I do not know, but at least the opportunity to remember filled my eyes with sugary tears.

So long,

Much Love


Destiny Breakdown,

“Half awake and half dozing, stuck by a drear reality, but still lost

In an inner sea fog of Danaidean dreams

I stand teeth chattering

On Memphis Station, Tennessee.

It is raining.

The night is so desolate and extinguished,
And the rain flays the ground

With a senseless, dark energy.

Everything is clammy and impenetrable.

Why does the train wait here hour after hour?

Why has my lot ground to a halt here? / why has my destiny broken down here?*

Am I to flee from rain and mind-numbingness

In Denmark, India and Japan

Only to be rained in and rot in Memphis

Tennessee, U.S.A.? ” […]
Johannes V. Jensen 

*other possible translation 

One of my favorite Scandinavian poem. Although this author was a controversial figure, neither my Scandinavian Literature teacher nor my researches could provide me with a definitive answer on that man. 

I really feel like my destiny has broken down,

 I can see the finishing line at the distance,  everything is going according to plans. But still, I don’t wanna go back to work just to be surrounded by people that don’t understand me or who enjoy exploiting me for the sack of the ones exploiting them, what a shame. My MacBook broke down, and my body as well, it’s hard for me to sleep and it’s hard for me to sing. However, the hardest yards are always the last ones, I’ve got to hold on for I don’t perceive victory, I see it. 

For once the “almost”-sleeping pills I take had an effect on me and I took a nap,

I better fix the engine of my destiny and get go before I snap.


Type Writer,

That’s the way it is, I guess, for some reason I always feel inspired while writing with the Hanx typewriter keyboard. What! Why? Because I wanted. Is it because of the “ancient” feel? Or is it that for a moment I feel like a novelist of the 30’s, alone in a radiant room filled with tabacco smoke, whiskey scent, ashes, dark thoughts and these inaudible whispering fairies, any murmur will do, anything that can distract us from our omnipresent torment, the absence of another heartbeat.

For some reason, again, in this mental “mise en scene” the one thing that catches my attention is this submissive scribe, this eloquent yet silent fellow, the enabler of my dream, the guardian of my whispers. The Typewriter. Type, writer! oh I love you. Maybe it’s the noise, maybe it’s the weight, maybe it’s the sounds, maybe it’s the presence. But there is something in the typewriter I found, that I have never seen even remotely elsewhere. The typewriter is the only object that helps the writer fight loneliness. 

I had dreamed to buy a Macbook to “feel like real writer” like those you see in series with a black cat on their left shoulders and a cup of coffee in their right hand. Always seeming to be writing some autobiographical superfluiteous toast. They always have nice bedroom though. I had this MacBook, and I wrote a book with it. But in spite of all it’s power, and beauty and functionalities, typing my first play on it was a great goal, but a bit cold. I did not feel any kind of support for, have I lost my mind, how could a machine do so? Weren’t MacBooks created for you to show off in Starbucks with the other scarecrows together, so that you feel a little bit lonelier. But you got a cup of coffee, in your right hand, and I think I was just too naive. Naive to believe that I could find some sort of support from that, “tool” but, you oh typewriter, you breathest.

I’ve always liked to create alone, but with someone watching that I was creating alone. Does it make sense? 

I don’t know. Since Paul Auster‘s New York Trilogy, everything has changed for me. Or I should better say, everything makes sense for me. One of my favorite short-story, Ghost relates the story of Mr. Blues hired to spy on Mr. Black. And you should stop here if you don’t want me to spoil the end for you. 

Basicaly, Mr. Blue was hired by Mr. Black himself to be able to write a story. I guess you’ve understood by now. 

I am Mr. Black. And you are Mr. Blue.

But unless you use shrewd plans and trickery, it is impossible to find a willing Mr. Blue. For you have to be submissive to be like him, and listen. While people want to dominate and exalt themselves, to go where? The other day, I asked them “to go where?” none of them them could provide me with a decent answer and they went back home silent, confused and their heads low. 
It’s like, when I move in my first flat alone, my mum told me to get a TV because, it creates the illusion of some sort of a “presence” when you are alone in your room.
Likewise the type machine provides with a sense of companionship nowhere to be found in any other inanimated object. This is why I love you so.

You’ll ask me, have you ever had a type machine. No, why asking?
I love you,