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To see and feel

but not think

To observe and understand

but not judge

To live not in fear or hope

but in one


(for Krishnamurti)


Sepulchre… can a word taken out of context be an omen? If so, I am bound to die soon.

He opened his eyes. What stupidity is this, he thought. The word kept invading his mind. He let it for a while, with a sense of perverse, masochistic pleasure, chuckling to himself at its persistence. Oh stop it now, will you. Sepulchre, sepulchre.

He got up wearily. Sepulchre, sepulchre. The tap started its racket but not loud enough to smother this pest. It was like a piece of scotch tape stuck to your finger. No matter how hard you shook your hand.

He turned the radio on and relaxed briefly to the sound of a piano piece. He attempted guessing the composer, just to occupy his mind. Beethoven? No, more like Brahms. Sepulchre. Damn.


WHAT ARE YOU DOING? They all shouted despite themselves. His arms went limp; her body, all alone now and heavy in its isolation, slowly lowered itself to the floor. Reluctantly. The horror of this reality was difficult to comprehend. He wanted to hear her say something, cough, emit a sound, the sound of the working of a human body, alive. But she wasn’t.

He suddenly became aware of the eyes witnessing the event with him, reflections of his bewilderment at this intrusion of death into what they called “life”.

She died. Without warning, so it seemed. Are we blind to the hints, he couldn’t help the thought from ridiculing his feelings.

He let her fall from his arms at the moment of sensing her acceptance of the inevitable.


Weary, he carried his body out of sleep and entered existence. The music had stopped but the memory of the strange thoughts that invaded his sleep lingered on. Sepulchre.

He was so very tired. Think. Don’t think. Stop. Go.

He washed. He shaved. He dressed and walked out of his enclosure. Enclosure. My God, he never thought of his apartment as such. A sense of futility crossed his mind but he was far too unprepared to accept it, to even consider it.


His hands went limp. Her body slipped from his grip with the frightening resignation of a dead object. No resistance. No control. Only one’s feelings to hold on to…

You have to learn how to die before you can learn how to live. Who said that?


Go away! His brain hurt like a bruise, it cringed before the thought as one would before a blow.

From The Book of Unfinished Stories


Art by Zdzislaw Beksinski

Something had happened.

…she woke up with fragments of dreams scattered around her. She will be finding them all day long. Lodged in her eyelashes. Falling off the tip of her finger, or floating to the floor from nowhere.

Impossible dreams, tinted with hysteria. Alien.

The date is may sixteenth nineteen eight two. The numbers mean nothing to her. Another dream.

She played mental games for a while. Piecing together the almost forgotten fragments, filling the gaps with hope.

From The Book of Unfinished Stories


Art by Zdzislaw Beksinski

… You don’t understand the depth of my love. Love, you see, has little to do with the one being loved, and everything to do with the one who loves.It does not matter who or what you are, it does not change my love for you, and nothing is likely to make me stop loving you, just as you are.It is my constant companion, bearer of my pain and solitude, its source and salvation, all in one.

From The Book of Unfinished Stories


Art by Aubrey Beardsley

My body has dragged me into the world of ‘old’

Surreptitiously, slyly… it crept up on me

insidiously changing

and then one day… the horror!

The image in the mirror is





enemy to my spirit and drive.

How do I become friends with it?

My mind still numb to its existence,

this unknown hindrance.



Art: Three Ages of Woman

By Gustav Klimt

So it happened.

It happened and now the now continued, and each moment beaded itself on and on and I felt like I was watching from the sidelines.

From The Book of Unfinished Stories


Art by Piotr Lichwierowicz