~ merry christmas, mr ~

the face of david. a head of moony, desaturated gold. over the surface of sand. a white moth landing on an eyebrow. stay.

you are the victim of men who think that they're right

hara-san.

merry christmas. quite reversely, as the last hours have taken away the only day of this year that i've beem waiting for. a story for which my heart thirsts. a feeling of haven, even if temporary. quite ironically, because the christmas was snowless, and now it's snowing over the roofs of oslo. gentle snowflakes, falling in peace, free from haste, making me believe that falling can be a flight, sometimes. i raise my blick over the screen, glimpse into the window. across the street - a lamplit office. a man working overtime, all eyes on his computer. a governmental departement. a man that has never cried. never from his very core.

flicker, do you know. there are tears so hot that they never reach the ground

space is only noise, if you can see

but will there be an echo