I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.

I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.

This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?