~ 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