~ next time, break me correctly ~

sonic pools. nobody in norway ever dances at concerts. raindrops. late night. quick morning. release, a postponed one. sneaking in with the daylight. sound of steps on a cobbled street. clouds passing through my forehead, canceling temples. a true release. when did it come? i danced at each one i attended. dance or cry, or both. cried last week, let it be motion this time. still do my crying in the rain, only lighter. listening to the song of my life because it sounds like rain and i want the sky to fall down on me and cover me with its grace, ice and air. thoughts spilling on the ground and rolling like faded indigo beads. some part of me still can't believe.

~ hungry ghosts ~

wandering moonburnt

i'll cover you in my own coat

my windy red coat

dear barren tree

~ our first names: angelene ~

there was one crooked street

and two crooked girls

crowned with countless shadows

putas baratas!

shouted two cycling brazilians right into our faces that night

unaware of that by doing so they had made us the happiest girls in the world. we laughed to the sky, recognized. 

and now, in a few days' time, a minute to 2012, drinking black rum on the roof of the opera house, breaking glasses against the houses of oslo, branding the humanless streets - two pirates. carry shadows for parrots.

two corsairs. and a tune wafting after the waves of their coats:

do not look back

do not look back

~ vollmond ~

this is too close, far too close


are you afraid?

are you scared?

if you are not, look again

and deeper, focus

now, you see?

which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns

are you scared?

if not, you should be

if yes, be brave

which way will the blindgirl turn surrounded by millions of eclipses

~ i mean you ~

and each time i will come

each time i'll be another

a sinner, a saint

your enemy, brother

the rush of freedom when a perceived part of you, a deeply true one gets expressed for the very first time - a thrill from the depths of an ocean reaching the surface, rucking it up, revealing its inner movement, released with an unheard sound.

whatever the face, its expression is constantly beautiful as reflecting the deepest truth.

it's an ascending shiver.

the wodnica who has finally found her way out to the surface

through the channels of ritual photography

will she sing?