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?

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

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

I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.

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.

I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.

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