All thoughts fly

Painting Leave a Mark.

🎧 Hammers. Nils Frahm.

His hands are like hammers. Twenty-one million times he got to swing those hammers. On my skin. And below. And it wouldn't be enough. All thoughts fly: hands rubbing against each other, hands that close, hands that open, hands caressing, strong hands that come into the mouth, hands that trace the scars on back… Any fluent perception or clear meaning is made impossible for several minutes, but eventually things come together in a gesture: the shaking of two hands. I can still remember the feelin' of his hand on my skin. But not enough for me anymore. All thoughts fly.

The sound of the letter itself.

To roll. Keep the point of the tongue in the middle of the palate. It seems to most a slight false note, but no.

It's an extra bowl. The notes of wonderous music. As the crackling of the fire, or the soothing sound of rain. The gently noise of the wind blowing through the leafs. A passionate embrace by the bonfire.

One tells that the hunter was wandering in the forest when he heard a beautiful sound. A considerable time elapsed: one said to the other, I really wonder if there is a witch out in the wood. A singing witch. Her voice has indeed a strange sweet sound! Shall we go there and see what the cause of it is?

And many went. They belonged to different expeditions and went at different times. Too much. Far too many. They didn't know. They didn't understand. And say that she is evil. Condemned her to death and burned her. And she sang. 

She wanted nothing more than to be understood. And loved by. Freely. That would be a world that does sound beautiful, and one where understanding would be the norm, and that is an idea worth spreading.

The witch. Lilith goddess.

The hunter fell in love with her and dedicated a song to her memory.

She sings his song as she burns.

The Occitan Language, mystery and miracle, is an act of faith towards the mountain, the wood, the love for the mountain, the wood. It's the most wonderful thing I'd ever heard.

Dins l'aiga de ta boca
Ai begut a l'amor.
A l'ombra de ta soca
Ai colcat un totjorn.

S'èri poèta e se m'aimaves
Aital seriá nòstra cançon.
Mas siás de fusta dins mos braces
E trauca, trauca lo cusson.

Al flume de ton pèl
Ai negat ma rason.
Ai daissat lo tropèl
Per seguir ta sason.

E puèi me soi penjat
Al negre de tos uèlhs.
La sason a cambiat
Per un autre solelh.

Las raras de ton còs
M'an donat un país.
La jòia de mon sòrt
Me trapa mai que ric.

D'autras causas encara
Me viran l'esperit.
Mas çò que ne son ara
Aquò es pas escrit.

And I thought you were the most amazing, most wonderful thing I'd ever seen - Ever.

To roll the R. To sharpen the knife. With it open old and new wounds that do not heal. There is no forever. Except for the pain. 🎧 R.I.P. Sepultura.

W a n d e r i n g / E r r i n g

Everyone's talking about rebirth. Everyone want to be reborn into this world. But to be reborn, she should have faith. Maybe she just doesn't believe. But she believes in strength of dreams.

She believes in  the air charged with electricity and lightning flashed through the sky, in the continuous siege to nerves, in the soul that enters the soul. She knows that it sounds hard: you can shape your dreams, giving life to extraordinary experiences… If you can't then you just walk on by.

Has to wander forever between the winds. She doesn't ask much of life. She wants nothing more than a little bit of adventure from time to time. Each century, she would have to stop and recharge. Bent almost to the ground as in an elegant bow to a regal and pristine nature that asks for nothing more than to be respected. And loved. Before or after she must leave again. Without her.

Illustration: I'll go. - Sketchbook by Milena.

Bye Alex.

🎧 Blood Fire Death. Bathory.

The trees of the mind are black.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if i were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. - Sylvia Plath. The Disquieting Muses.

I wanted this so much, I waited for so long.

And now that I have it, it's hard to believe it actually is.

The pages of other books tell about the grace and courage with which other women live.

But it's not my life. I live on the edge.

My world is made of fog, dark figures, awful scenarios…

The pastel monotone depress me.

So I have to look off the books.

But I don't want to.

I'll stay here.

🎧 Eclipse. Wooden Shjips.