From beyond, through fear,
through the south to anguish,
and three steps down to agony;
all paths are chanted, lacquered with kerosene,
reflecting the waning crescent
that looks like horns on the top of our shadow’s head.
All these nocturnal corners I,
through my life,
have seen myself,
lost and regained myself,
shifting through riot chapters,
exhaustedly reading performative philosophy,
but also Kafka.
Layers of fictional fantasies
build through music I may,
or may not,
identify myself with anymore—
really,
unless it’s Song to the Siren.
In the end, listening to Mozart's Fish Beach,
looking forward through the left car glass,
behind.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 2:21 PM UTC
From beyond, through fear,
through the south to anguish,
and three steps down to agony;
all paths are chanted, lacquered with kerosene,
reflecting the waning crescent
that looks like horns on the top of our shadow’s head.
All these nocturnal corners I,
through my life,
have seen myself,
lost and regained myself,
shifting through riot chapters,
exhaustedly reading performative philosophy,
but also Kafka.
Layers of fictional fantasies
build through music I may,
or may not,
identify myself with anymore—
really,
unless it’s Song to the Siren.
In the end, listening to Mozart's Fish Beach,
looking forward through the left car glass,
behind.