Trees that wear hats

Aici zace un om fara cuvinte.

Imi pare rau ca nu pot fi cu tine cand dormi... si imi pare rau ca arat asa putin. Imi pare rau. Te iubesc, sa stii. Mereu am facut-o, si cand nu ne cunosteam, si daca nu ne cunoastem. Mereu ti-am stiut demonii, iar tu pe ai mei. Imi place ca atunci cand eram mici, nu iti dai seama... dar vorbeam. Da, chiar noi doi. Imi e dor de tine. Si de tobogan. Si de scranciob. Parca as vrea sa ma lasi sa imi vad de viata. Dar parca n-as vrea... adica esti singurul lucru constant. Faptul ca existi. Te admir pentru asta. Ce daca nu ai ales sa fii constient? De ce ai pune asa multa valoare pe lucrurile constientizate? Pana la urma, tot tragi adanc aer in piept si iti dai seama ce frumos e automatismul respirator. Ar trebui sa facem asta cu existenta. Imi e dor sa ma asculti asa. Stai la mine in poala si mori oleaca, fiind cu mine... sa nu ne mai desprindem niciodata. Mori si tu, mor si eu... ramane ceva la fel? Inca suntem. Drumul din piata spre casa...23 de metri, de doua ori pe zi. I-a

Mergeam spre groapa de gunoi Eu cu sacii plini, ei cu sacii goi. In plumbul greu ma simteam vioi, Ei trei faceau dragoste in doi. Veneam de la centrala cea pe aburi Eu cu argintii-n buzunar, ei cautau prin lauri. Rupeam cu dintii de un colt de paine al unei ciori... Ei radeau, pe mine pa treceau fiori. Mergeam la groapa cu noroi Ei se scaldau plini, noi ieseam goi. Miroase a tei iar eu plang gunoi... Mai putin gu, mai mult noi.

This... mountain of solitude this... pile of interpretation. Don't we... at least I feel alone when I see you looking at the same picture as me and talking another language. Language... it's powerful indeed. For everything is subjective... Phylosophy is almost useless. You just won't make anything out of what I say, and I have a problem... I just phylosophate for your own goddamn sake. What I make of this world? It just is, along with us. As an insignifiant part of it, with an ego big enough to dream of changing it "for the better"... now I choose to respect. And love, and admire, and be astonished. Why? Because I have to choose a way to express myself, don't I? All this talking... text is irrelevant... meet me and I will show so much more. I'll end with this quirk of grammar we call rhymes... why? Just kill yourself And on the empty blackboard you will be reminded That you forgot twenty books a shelf Filled with your delighted. Just let yoursel

I do indeed struggle with writing like a kid. Perhaps you do indeed lose your ability to write when... when you leave your backpack behind. When you roam. When there's only you on the road. A road of a foreign language, new currency. Frigid trees, dry roses... it's you going ahead. Just going. There's no end. But if you stop, you die. There's no up, there's no down. It's just you walking fast or slow. Tripping on a branch or sprinting. It's all your perspective of the road, how fast it's shifting from beneath you. So go ahead, die. I'm not ahead of you. I'm not behind. I'm not besides, I did not forget you. We're both nomads. We both have to go. And if you don't carry yourself... yes, you could be carried by someone. But that wouldn't be help. Cuz you would still not be walking relative to the road, who is now the person you're standing upon. So roam, brother. With pride and confidence. We're both the same, a

Every night, I write. I cannot write. I have to. I am not prepared. But this text has to write itself. And that is it. My mind is blank. I have dilluted everything. Let me go, body. Let me go. Let me drown in sorrow. Leave me be, mind, leave me to it. All experience is a culprit. Listen close, listen well I can't sing nor dance and tell. I can't laugh or jump or cry I'm less immortal, I do not die. I live it dead and leave it be You're living in a spree. Old-fashioned of gloomed yellow. I just have no one to write next to