When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

I’ve been listening to trash techno since morning, I need energy.   the last month of autumn, So enjoy this damp warmth, those who love it.
I bought a very warm coat for winter,
I’ll probably only wear it at a resort.

Google Assistant is reminding me that my birthday is coming up, I'm turning 34, and this age doesn't make me happy anymore. It especially annoys me when people call once a year just for this and don't think of me the rest of the time.

In a maddened world that has taken root within us, we are poisoned, poisoned by the selfishness of leaders for whom no dose of calming medicine can be found.

I woke up early today. I have a lot to do: handwritten texts to type up on the computer. But I’m feeling lazy even the thought of lifting a finger for this work feels like a chore, even though it’s paid.

In one sentence, I came across a thought on realism it said, “How real are we?” I think we might actually have a chance to be real.

Concrete trees,
buildings and houses.
A world covered by concrete,
it became a barren, empty place.

I used to write by hand, but I don't anymore because I kept losing my diaries. I lost my first diary back in school, my teacher told me, 'I'll read your poems,' and then the diary disappeared. I was too shy to say, 'Please give me my diary.' Now I have a tablet, and I always leave it at home.

It's absurd to claim that I don’t place my slippers by the bed every day. They’re always there, untouched, just as I left them. But still, I’ve wondered before waking up, will they be there where I left them?

Clergymen live in luxury, I wrote to them, asking what they think about the idea that Satan might punish them for it if God doesn't have time. They blocked me.