I want to live in a house where silence reigns,
to hear the echo of sounds drifting in from the yard.
To live like the beautiful tales written on the pages of a book,
to love like Juliet,
and to be able to die with her.
He will come in the evening, open the door,
we'll talk simply.
Our desires are the same,
don’t we all long for peace.

Another way
to switch this array
of limitless colors
into a sprawl of gray.
It has become enough
to see it, as it was,
with nothing but air
to provide our touch.

What were we saying
when we were surveying
the vastness of these ruins?
Fire has always been
our light, after we ignored
what it was destroying.

Fire has now brought
attention to our wounds,
before feeling the pain.

We cannot continue,
burning when we walk,
leaving ashen footprints
for ghosts to follow.

We must surrender,
believing in the end
that was always near.

We must not suffer,
after all we'll divorce.
We'll lead our sickness
to its beautiful grave.

Pain comes through
as a growing stain,
among these immaculate
puddles, where a reflection
ought to always reveal
all I've concealed.

I beg to be released,
to be understood for a wrong
I've been challenging.

I beg to be noticed
even as a ghost in your
bedroom of shadows.

The air doesn't feel as heavy,
but it still hurts to breathe.
I think I'm going under,
but as much as I miss you,
I'm not ready to leave.
I can't tell you how I'm feeling
because I'm feeling everything and nothing
all the time. And as the days turn into years,
it seems like the only things that stay
are my fears. The fear that someday, I'll be OK without you. The fear that someday,
all that I'll have left of you
are love and memories.

Living in the suburbs has a special charm, especially if you live in one of the quarters of Tbilisi's Varketili district, where the sea is also nearby: tall buildings, scorching heat, and mulberry trees in the yard, whose pungent smell reaches your nostrils.

The noise of the neighborhood, gatherings, conversations around the table, drinking, smoking, hoodies, jeans, sneakers, Adidas—these are what reflect fashion trends, taking their beginnings and energy from the suburbs and sticking around.

Here, you'll encounter Soviet-era kiosks covered in rust. Larger-scale parks and children whose voices color the world, reaching the silent concrete buildings.

The political atmosphere is more superficial; there's not much to capture in photos, but if you head to the sea, a camera will definitely come in handy.

I have an apartment for sale.

Madness, like a human's mark,
It claims that everything is fine,
It plays, as for it, God has changed,
Faith is either exalted or diminished.
Signs are everywhere,
It has become the center of the universe,
It has absorbed every book,
This treacherous ailment
Has added uncontrollable power.
It plays with colorful thoughts.

I'd rather write a million poems
Than appease to what's unjust;
I'd rather die a million times,
Than in you to put my trust.

And if in the end I really must,
I reckon there's spells to cast;
And for those I'll be ****** for,
But at least I stayed,
True to my core.

I envy your mind. I ponder your past.
Which is the one behind those words?
So deep, so real. Who hurt you?

Nobody can truly know
how when the nights comes and the moon rises high in the sky,
I close my eyes, excited to take off to the land of dreams,
because I know you will be there.
Waiting for me,
smiling at me,
sitting on a bench in the park with me.
Nobody can truly know,
how immensely happy I am in those non-existent moments.
But they exist, they really do.
Just not here,
not in this cold world.