contemporary society breathes hues of a kind never painted before by the masters of old, their strokes now embalmed by
the cadmium salt of artificiality, absorbing all water from life's unwritten silhouettes as well as from the
silken highways connecting our hearts so that any accidentally spilled disagreement can be
swiftly and accurately muted by the deafening blanket of the

why do people feel so lonely nowadays?
why do we emphatically dream of unlived lives instead of living the lives we should have been dreaming?
(as if prozac and bedsores actually balance the weight of a soul nourished by the very act of living)

yet no matter how lonely we feel, no matter
how zealously the rain curtain is weaved between ourselves, it will always remain

(just that)

soul-covering varnish with ever more dark rains mercilessly reflected on its surface, yet which is
so easily shattered by one microscopic scratch
decades of hollow staring at gelatinizing walls swept away by one
brave little act, one gesture from a rekindled heart,
perhaps only a hesitating smile, but nevertheless a

we are so much lived by surfaces, with a cacophony of tensions so immense that we
stick, we glue ourselves frantically to every transient echo passing these coagulating worlds of emptiness
(or how the laws of adhesion and cohesion went astray)

yet no matter how much noise we exhale
there will always be the silent dive we take between our heartbeats, each time
relearning how to ripple down the abyss, down the
valleys of forlorn tales
where we once dreamed of distant shores to be washed upon,
where the creeks still purl and the
trees still rustle
for a surface can only dream of growing an inch thick and we will never
be able to contain the olive tree patiently growing
behind our heavily guarded
cellar doors