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It is hiding in the corners

Lurking just out of sight

Weighing heavy on my chest

Invisible Succubus

Reality unchained




By whose measure?

And why fear it?



Art: John Henry Fuseli, The Nightmare, 1781



(…) the curtain billowed gently in and out, as if the room were breathing. Wind chimes, too heavy for the delicate breeze, hung silent amid the quiet movement. Swaying slowly, they avoided touching, over and over. Dusk and shadows laboured in unison to paint the dissipating landscape. With each flutter of the curtain, the light dimmed. She stood still, in the eye of an invisible storm.


From The Book of Unfinished Stories

Edward Hopper:Woman in the Sun










Art: Edward Hopper, Woman in the Sun, 1961




And a deeper silence

When the crickets


              –Leonard Cohen













Art: Józef Chełmoński, Babie lato, 1875




the whisper of moments

the murmur of thoughts

the song of the heart

the wail of the soul

the life in between

the paean within

to nothing but death

and all that survives

the longing of one

the fate of the lot

not heaven

nor hell




Art: Hieronymus Bosch




E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.

And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars



Art: Ascent of the Blessed (fragment) by Hieronymus Bosch




It was quiet on the day the door closed.

The morning rose grey and still. There was no sound, as if the wind lost its voice. The sky was gone, replaced by clouds that obliterated shapes and stifled all sound.There was no need to get up. Suddenly there was no need to struggle, no need to live.

Yet life was all there was.

Even the silence breathed.

But you had to be dead to hear it.

Or alive enough.


black and white

white and black

a kiss of grey

in mounds of snow

red street light

bleeds a drop

the flashing green

a fleeing gecko

blue bus

streaks against the…

black and white

white and black

a kiss of grey…


Art: Ewa Scheer, ice paintings


You said I was wonderful

You said I could do anything

You said I could do no wrong

You said you loved me

You said I was beautiful

Then you closed your eyes forever

… and I disappeared.



Art: Ludmila Armata



Un mot ici

Un autre là

Ce qui, moi?



This is but a murmur

A voice drowning in a cacophony of shrieks

Amid species bent on self-destruction

Imploding with hatred

This is pathology

Not politics

There is no cure

The virus is spreading

The lie

Like a house of cards

Beyond proportions

Who will say they’re sorry?

Hope is but a word

In this world infected

With death

No antidote

And no time to find one

Divinity debunked

While extolled

That’s for the entranced.

For the awake

And the curious

There is no salvation.

‘Should I stay or should I go?’



Art: Francisco Goya