Saturday, November 26, 2011

Nightmares, sleeping...

The watchmen are changing shifts. The next guy, he doesn't want to wake up; he can't dream of being vigilant on a cold night like this one. But the other guy is tired, he bangs on the iron door of their makeshift cottage. The darkest part of the night is over and his shift is too; he wants to sleep. And to shift, unconsciously, from one nightmare to the next.

Thursday, November 24, 2011


Not the extravagant ones, the simple ones are the ones that make you happy. You could have a roaring celebration with a thousand people around, and all new suits and shirts and shoes, and all the laughter that your heart can hold or atleast comprehend; but it wouldn’t compare. No, not to the simple moments. The moments in candle light, when the electricity trips. Or when you look out a window and see only stars. The smiles that you gather like coins through the day. A very sweet daydream. Or ice cream. An inside joke that a close friend slips into a crowded conversation. The laughter of children. Those mornings when a warm (or cold, depending on the season) shower feels like winning the lottery. That feeling when you make someone tea, even though you hate tea, even though you’re getting late, even though you barely know how. Contrary to popular belief, there is more bliss in the mundane, in the everyday than there is in a million holidays; if you’d only deign to see it.

Saturday, November 19, 2011


I wish for you days, when you look around,
And all is see is beauty
And all you feel is happiness
And all you do is love, love, love...

An Assange Memory

When a man scares you enough, shakes your bones and proves his strength,
his intelligence; the simplest thing is to find a pimple in his past.
Bloody system, literally.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Rufus, in winter

His nose is cold and slowly, very slowly, turning red. His mother named him Rufus, but she'd rather call him Pepito, she says. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't move; names are of little or no consequence to him,let her call him whatever she wants. His jeans are chafing the dry skin of his thighs and the wind blows his sombrero askew. Soon she's straightening her jacket and informing him - they had better be going. So, he straightens his and they walk along. That's the last of them.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Songs For Someone Else

Long before she'd etched his name in silver, in the silver of her wedding band, she did belong to someone else. And he wasn't nice like this one, he didn't hold her like he does. Yet in her eyes, and when she cries, there are still traces of him. Because she wont throw away the books he gave her, and the songs, and the ring; she can't unlive the pain. And years later, when they're still together, this man will understand: she only keeps them as a reminder, she keeps them just for him.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


Putting a gentle hand to her shoulder, he purred into her ear, "I'm very sorry princess, but there are some things that can't be fixed by merely flipping your parting..."