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 1d LL
Zywa
Apart from science

it is not allowed by law --


to tell the whole truth.
Comic strip #61 - "Tom Poes en De Waarzegger" ("Tom **** and The Truth Teller", 1954, Marten Toonder), tier 2310

Collection "**** & Lord"
 Mar 26 LL
Zywa
The heart as a drum,

and the mouth as a trumpet:


that's a human life.
Poem by the Zen-monk Muso Soseki (1274-1351), included in the 1986 collection "Japanese Death Poems", compiled by Yoel Hoffmann: "Thus have I rolled my life throughout / inside and out, reclined, upright / What is all this? / A beating drum / a trumpet’s blare / No more"

Collection "Thinkles Lusionless"
 Mar 26 LL
Zywa
Love is a moon, it

changes from day to day, there's --


increase, there's decrease.
Novel "De stiefmoeder" (2011, "The Stepmother", Renate Dorrestein), part 'Claire', chapter Five

L'amore è come la luna: quando non aumenta, diminuisce (Love is like the moon: when it does not increase, it decreases)

Collection "Old sore"
 Mar 18 LL
Zywa
He asks if I can

cry nicely, the comforting --


will be better then.
Novel "Schimmenrijk" ("Realm of shades", 1999, Rosita Steenbeek), chapter 11

Collection "Em Brace"
 Mar 18 LL
Zywa
Waking up, lightly

balancing between repose --


and my brand new day.
Composition "Fragile Balance" (2014, Jürg Frey), for ensemble and piano, performed on four saxophones by the Amstel Quartet in the Organpark on March 8th, 2025

Collection "org anp ARK" #99
 Mar 13 LL
Nehal
Spring recalls a scene;
Lo! You self-loathe for the one—
Who unheard your cry.
 Mar 12 LL
Dani Just Dani
I miss you,
on afternoons after long days,
new calluses forming
from gripping buckets,
on endless drives
where my eyes fight sleep.

Where are you,
my love,
that I don’t see you
or feel you
resting on my chest,
your bare knee
tucked between mine?

Morena,
beautiful girl who loves with her eyes,
roses pressed into every kiss,
I miss them,
every morning I wake
with only dawn to keep me company.

Kiss me, pretty girl,
tangled in a sea of sheets.
Kiss me now,
and later,
on lonely mornings
and quiet afternoons.

Do it now,
as the air fills with pollen,
as spring unravels red buds
one by one.

The pecan trees know
the cold won’t return.

So let me hold you,
my aching hands wrapped around you,
for as long as you are here.
 Mar 6 LL
Marc Morais
Sorry is a door
you step through,
barefoot and
open-handed,
every time
you think
you must fix something
that was meant to break.

Sorry is a door,
soft as cloud,
hard as regret,
it swings
no matter how many times
you slam it shut.

You keep—
believing,
knocking,
and walking through.

As if the other side
will be different this time.
As if love
waits with open arms
instead of crossed fingers.


The truth is—
sorry is the door
you take over and over again
until you understand
you never
wanted to be on the other side
to begin with.

Sorry is the door
to the wrong house.
 Mar 6 LL
Marc Morais
If the world was flooded
from top to bottom
and the sky
went topsy-turvy
and had to
take the fall.

If I could start over
be anything I wanted to be—

Then,
I would pick
to be a rubber ducky—
perfectly
unsinkable,
undrownable,
undrinkable,
undigestab­le,
rubber ducky.
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