Monday to Sunday

‘Monday’s child is fair of face. Tuesday’s child is full of grace. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Thursday’s child has far to go. Friday’s child is loving and giving. Saturday’s child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.’ Read More …

Silence vs. Honesty

I’m feeling so cold and hot at the same time, still overwhelmed by tiredness and exhaustion. Waiting for the perfect time to cry, I’m amazed that I can still hold it. I thought that I would be free soon and leave everything and everyone behind and start a new chapter. Wrong. It’s the first time Read More …

Elephants on acid

I’m back from the Hurricane Festival, which was probably my last festival ever. It was a week of suffering rain, cold, noisy drunk arseholes that piss outside your tent! Anyway, those people supported me with the music they make. So I let them off. I’m just not sure whether I’m ready to pull through the Read More …

Kiss this

Extremely stressed. Don’t need this shit. Need a mask for the day. Turning into my masked anti-hero. He never compromises. I never take sides. Not even friends’. Proved to myself. Of being a bad friend. Don’t need this anymore. Sociopath. At least not fake. Can’t keep mouth shut anymore. People agree and disagree. People sue Read More …

Farewell is nigh

I forgot how to dance – like the bird in the evening sky. I see nothing around me except for rational perceptions coming from people’s mouths. Uninteresting. Everyone sees things differently and thus can’t connect themselves to the one they feel attracted to or the one they love. I don’t tell people that I know Read More …

Hurm

There are fewer spoken words each day because each sentence currently lacks meaning, or I just don’t get it. So it better remains unspoken, before they even lose more meaning. I’ve grown very detached from conversations. I’m not looking forward to going to the doctor’s this morning. He will talk about everything that makes sense Read More …

The bystanders

July 8th, 1967, Saturday Yesterday was Kitty Genovese’s birthday. It would have been her thirty-second. I turned twenty-five yesterday and spent the entire night working at the bar, listening to old men babbling about President Johnson while playing poker. One of them was Michael Voorhees. He is a sixty-three-year-old fellow whose wife died last month. Read More …