The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.

Literature + Illness = Illness

Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.

Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.

The secret story is the one we'll never know, although we're living it from day to day, thinking we're alive, thinking we've got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn't matter.

In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet.

We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?