...the gramophone

it is a late sunday, slow. I think I would like to share that I am craning my neck, bent and stooped, staring at the light bulb across the room. from this angle, everything is sloping downwards, maybe a little more silently. no one else could walk into this room—they would be too loud, too tall, too fast. they might enter this space, but find themselves suddenly in the hall, counting all the floorboards, their teeth.

(I really wanted to address the notion a friend put into my thoughts, and here, maybe it kindles the fear. my friend, from the car seat, summer darkness: I would like to see a post you write. And then a translated version, in English.

and I can only say, that this is simply how I have always felt. I know writing is thick with mirrors, and the teenage poets, fucking themselves. but I, am just staring at the wall, and these colours, words that crash, and rooms that fall away, into slowest light. every time I try to explain it, I start to hurt, with this dizziness, and—goddamn—I wish I could paint the thoughts, the voices that take my bones away.

The point, though: I can only feel the way I feel. No games.)

I wanted to share this link, some prose, a conversation, the kind that makes the room bend, makes the light bulb a little slower.

CLICK ME, FOR I AM A LINK! A CONVERSATION!

(Said The Gramophone is one of my favourite little places to drift away with, for prose, and a song. it’s just, pretty and odd.)