I close my eyes, and I am a tree;
I close my eyes and I ride, pedaling, arms stretched out like a bird in flight, like dandelions towards the sun.
Above me, leaves rustle, stars chime, chorusing with the hum of high-voltage lines.
The world is blue like Magritte's September.
I close my eyes, and time flows like a stream, emerging from an ancient riverbed.
Perhaps that's why my pace, as I move through the grove of youth is so strange - because time exists for me for two months a year.
Questions that have no answers.
Do questions have answers, really?
Every answer seems fictitious.
Life is a relationship with a pathological liar, and if you're lucky, he doesn't abuse you further.
I'm cycling downhill, crickets in the bushes warming themselves by rubbing legs together.
It's warm and dry, but the air is cool and wet - like a compress on a bruised knee.
I tend to keep hitting my head.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 5:17 AM UTC
I close my eyes, and I am a tree;
I close my eyes and I ride, pedaling, arms stretched out like a bird in flight, like dandelions towards the sun.
Above me, leaves rustle, stars chime, chorusing with the hum of high-voltage lines.
The world is blue like Magritte's September.
I close my eyes, and time flows like a stream, emerging from an ancient riverbed.
Perhaps that's why my pace, as I move through the grove of youth is so strange - because time exists for me for two months a year.
Questions that have no answers.
Do questions have answers, really?
Every answer seems fictitious.
Life is a relationship with a pathological liar, and if you're lucky, he doesn't abuse you further.
I'm cycling downhill, crickets in the bushes warming themselves by rubbing legs together.
It's warm and dry, but the air is cool and wet - like a compress on a bruised knee.
I tend to keep hitting my head.
