My talisman was destroyed
by a sorcerer, who, much annoyed,
bade me worship only him.
I worship not a lowly man
who lacks the power to understand
beauty beyond the realm of man.

Plato’s archetypes are real
in our creations and what we feel.

The innocence of childhood play
The setting sun at end of day
The work of every artist great
Brings me to a better fate

My talisman returned to me
Resurrected, in a different guise.
There is somewhere of no lies,
only adamantine ties.
Where love is indivisible from art
and only death tears us apart.

A plastic bag for the two of us.
Natural medicine to share.
Take a little bit, and it'll send you there.
Where? I'm not sure I can only depict what I saw.

A woman, beautiful and strong. Her eyes closed as if she was asleep. Green in color, she pulsed her image into me.

Was she telling me that she was a part of me?
Circles surrounded her, characters I've never seen in between.

What does it truly mean?
Is she one who created me? Claimed me?
I can't say.

And I look for her, still, to this day

It hits you in the strangest places—
at the gas station
when the guy in front of you
fumbles with his change,
cursing under his breath like a man
who’s been fighting a war
you’ll never know the name of.
Or in the supermarket,
when you catch a glimpse
of a tired woman
staring too long at the frozen peas
as if they hold
some secret answer
to whatever the hell is breaking her.

And suddenly,
you feel it:
the sheer weight
of their lives.
People, everywhere,
carrying things
you can’t see.
Silent burdens,
private heartbreaks,
tiny wars fought behind closed doors.
It’s like looking into a hundred windows
on a cold street at night,
each one glowing
with some story
you’ll never get to know.

You try not to think about it,
but it’s always there—
the quiet truth
that everyone
is dragging something behind them.
The man who cuts you off in traffic
isn’t just an *******;
he’s late for a job
he hates,
or maybe he just found out
his kid’s in trouble again.
The woman who snaps at the cashier
has been holding back tears all day,
and now,
for reasons she can’t even explain,
she’s breaking down
over a bag of groceries.

It makes you feel small,
like your own pain
is just another drop
in a sea that’s already drowning everyone.
But it also makes you feel something
you don’t want to admit—
a raw, aching tenderness
for this wreck of a world
where everyone is limping
through their own private hell
while trying to smile
through it all.

And here’s the kicker:
you’re one of them too.
You lie awake at night,
wondering if the people you hurt
still think about it,
if they’re staring at their ceilings
the same way you are,
asking themselves
why nothing ever seems
to fit right.
You tell yourself
you’ll be better,
you’ll try harder,
but deep down,
you know
you’re just another story
playing out behind some window
no one’s looking into.

It hurts, doesn’t it?
To know that everyone is real,
that their lives are just as tangled,
just as ****** and raw as yours.
To know that behind every glance,
every passing face,
there’s a whole world
of love and loss,
hope and ruin,
and you’ll never be able
to touch it,
to truly understand it.

Maybe that’s why
we keep going—
because we’re all stumbling
through the same darkness,
hoping,
praying
that somewhere along the way,
someone will see us
through the glass,
and maybe,
just maybe,
they’ll understand
that we were never
just passing faces.

The clock spits hours like broken teeth
and the walls sweat memories I never asked for.
Outside, the sky is drunk—
staggering between night and neon,
while dogs bark at shadows that aren’t even there.
I laugh into my glass of whiskey,
because what else can you do
when life hands you a fistful of
nothing
wrapped in yesterday’s bad news?

The neighbor’s kid screams like a siren
while his mother chain-smokes apologies
to the universe through the cracks in her window.
There’s a man down the street
who argues with God every morning
like they’re old enemies playing cards.
He always loses,
but he plays again anyway.

I’m not crazy—
I’m just tuned into a frequency
no one else wants to hear.
Static and sirens.
The hum of dead stars collapsing quietly.
The sound of a world
that doesn’t even know it’s burning.

I haven’t slept in days.
I keep chasing my thoughts
like a dog chasing its own tail,
round and round,
until they collapse in a pile of exhaustion
and I sit there,
staring at the ashtray,
wondering why my heart
feels like a busted vending machine
spitting out all the wrong things.

They call me a lunatic
because I see the cracks
in their perfect porcelain smiles—
because I know
their gods wear suits
and their saints sell lies.
Because I walk barefoot
on the jagged edge of this world
and I don’t care if I bleed.

So I howl at the moon,
dance with my demons,
and kiss the chaos on its lips.
I scribble madness on the walls,
make love to the mess,
and call it life.
Because maybe lunacy
is the only sane thing left.