I feel how you touch your body,
like the gentle melting of ice in spring.
I'll tell you the story of Scheherazade,
and together we'll listen to Antar.

Our graves were in kurgans,
Our shelter was in caves,
We painted on rocks,
We warmed ourselves with animal fur,
We hunted,
We perceived beauty less,
We sang with howls,
We slept together,
What we thought about, only God knows.

I’ve been listening to trash techno since morning, I need energy.   the last month of autumn, So enjoy this damp warmth, those who love it.
I bought a very warm coat for winter,
I’ll probably only wear it at a resort.

I watch as the wind stirs my black curtain,
it’s 20:09.
I’m cooling my green tea.

Today, I’ll probably plan nothing,
sudden decisions unsettle me.

But as Kafka would say, perhaps once, by our actions, we should surprise ourselves and others, even if it’s just an impulsive stroll…

From the windows of the building across, silhouettes can be seen in the light,
it’s the loveliest stretch of summer.

Google Assistant is reminding me that my birthday is coming up, I'm turning 34, and this age doesn't make me happy anymore. It especially annoys me when people call once a year just for this and don't think of me the rest of the time.

You wear a long black coat,
your hair falls over your shoulders,
You  have  Chloe perfume.
Your life simply isn’t like anyone else’s,
you never wanted to be someone else.
You drink white semi-dry wine.
You have everything,
maybe that’s why you’re alone.
You read Agota Kristof,
you don’t smoke and you work out.
You are sad,
and everyone like you is sad.

Not much thing makes me happy,
often just a connection with nature suffices.
I watch the trees on a windy day,
I see your photo.
Not much thing makes me happy,
just the thought of your existence
is enough, yet you are never enough.
You sow so many feelings within me,
sometimes I even hate you.
A dim light fills my room,
but my heart never dims.
Not much thing makes me happy,
I think you know this too.