~ you're miles away (the truth is) ~

this is the last entry on this blog. a website is being built, photos are being taken, films are being made, sculptures emerge and so do paintings. and i myself am turning into a catalyst for creation. let the focus remain set. this place has served its purpose and is no longer presentable for stages to come.

below, a school exercise. once again i bended the task to suit my inner rafts. i listen carefully but i sing in my own way.

poor mobile camera copy, but isn't it one of the charms this place has. a state of draft.

on doit pouvoir s'épanouir à tout envoyer enfin en l'air

we can. we do. if we ponder the possibility of light unobvious, that it also can creep from behind and sweep its fingers over your backhead just like darkness does. that the foreground can be, as it often is, the darkest part of the picture - and that the sight lightens with growing distance. the fairest Lucipher of Milton and Blake descending to hell. and taking it over.

if we realize the light that can be as solid as the shadow, as heavy as a nightly sky. that it, maybe, cuts as deep and swiftly as the borders of black, that it maybe swings the sharpest razors. maybe the only ones.

let my eyes tell you something you'll understand

goodbye

see you soon in some other place

.w

~ i do my crying in the rain ~

i'll come with the flood and teach you to breathe underwater

for this to happen you need to go to the shore, stand on the edge in the storming weather

you have to be fearless, you get lost only if you fear drowning

1+1 = 1

mathematics of rain

our count

you know surface is for the easy, it reflects the sun beautifully

depths are for those who are ready to drown, if together

the sun is taken in

the greatest drama of the story of little mermaid is that she at all needed to go on land

walk in pain and mute

if a dive had come, there would have been sounds, music

a new kind of breath

~ then came the rain ~

don't want to start any blasphemous rumours

but i think that god's got a sick sense of humour

a question: 

why do i always turn blakian at the break of winter
end up thinking of lions and black birds high up in the sky
this time: of a lion and a black bird high up in the sky

a feeling:

 the chess-pieces are moving
where to?

and this fox? september fox of oslo. september fox of paris that looked just like me.

a me that knows not. with eyes wide open recognizing no shapes, knowing nothing, just like a child. only i can't look like a child does anymore - i'm not a tabula rasa, i'm a palimpsest. a one that recreates itself, and each time, even if it becomes a new sheet ready to be written on, it gets heavier. by the ink it has contained, by the number of recompositions, by the crash of bonds broken. i feel like i'm on my way under a printing press. in a way i really want it. i wonder if only girls can be this self-destructive. 

so, flicker, this page is not clear - it's only empty.
flicker -

when i die i expect to find him laughing

~ magnetic south ~

but the true travellers are they who depart

for departing's sake; with hearts light as balloons,

they never swerve from their destinies,

saying continuously, without knowing why: 'let us go on!'

having decided in your youth
on the policy of truth
you hear

a calling