About to leave for the city, I pass by the dreaded place one last time. I can hear a cricket & the laughter of children playing at the field. Is it all in my head? Is it actually happening? The sky is clear & lots of sunlight falls upon the piece of land which used to be swarmed with grass. The Tarmac looks shiny & alive. I ask myself if such perception is a twisted vision created by my obtuse longing. I consider picking up turf to use as carpeting in my brand new apartment. My grandma is gone, the crickets silent, the grasshoppers still & my dreams lacking green. It will not be easy to move on. Silence. Grey piece of Tarmac. I can only close my eyes. Grey Tarmac. Grey piece of matter being tore by germs of grass. Grey bits of tar macadam going through the sky. Insects popping. Music in my head. The sight of clouds when lying on the ground looking upwards. I smile with a twitch. The grass field lives in my head...



The field of Tarmac is still there. I reckon I unconsciously wished to run into this specific point once more this morning, as if it could have been just a delusion [you know, the Tarmac] Silly memory. Silly me, longing for a dirty field of grass. The Tarmac is still there. Cold & grey, hard & quiet. I might move to a city where you can only find grass around a certainly almost dead tree trapped in cement. Obviously, there is no space to casually spot a grasshopper. Let alone lying down just to lose track of time. I wonder how come progress can be evoked to excuse dead matter. Grey concrete. Grey remembrances of previous thoughts. Grey acts & consequences. A million insects I might have counted. It is not going to disappear [you know, the impervious field of Tarmac] I will die one day, & the piece of land full of dirt & grass will not be there to preserve my occurrences. I should not have come to this sight again. I should keep walking...



The grass field where I used to play does not exist anymore. Instead, you can see a grey piece of Tarmac, which happens to be grey both literally & figuratively speaking. All the people who used to pass by, either going somewhere else or just admiring the soothing panorama, are gone too. I ignore what the purpose of this 'ex-field of dreams' is now. Not that someone has not tried to inform me, you understand. I shushed my neighbour when he vainly attempted to show off all the little gossip he knew about the matter. I cannot recall how I ran into this haven. I cannot remember how long I stayed there looking for grasshoppers to take to my grandma or lying on the ground hearing music in my head with my eyes closed either. The music, the memories of both the experienced sensations & the field are still in my head, whereas the actual phenomena are not. I never took a picture of it. I should keep walking...



Deity going like lost shit I just found rawness so damn fond of assimmetry wielding harsh causes bearing quirky acts & consequences.
Schizoid feeling like-a homeless hanging around the dwelling I did not choose to linger about holes within grey matter that dies & dries itself.
Sceptical abiding so strained suggest I be in rabidity quite swallowed by departure undergoing racking she avoids any try or hue & cry.
It's her relinquishment vexes vexatious vexations.
Envy the unlimited verve.
Hate the heretic jargon.
Feed on devil squares.



What, for heavens sake, is honour? Do I possess it? I have lied several times through life. So, can I still have honour? The definition of such word is not as absolute, linear & plain as lots of people believe it to be. If a straight definition is to be achieved, we might find that there's no honour left in this world, except for, I wish real hard, children. Ha! As usual, I might just be wrong...One occcupation never involving the aforementioned trait has to be the one of a politician. Is there anybody who would dare contradict me?! It is all about interests & the money, acquiring power, controlling people's will...It is damn clear that corporations have more power. Nevertheless, political parties & their ass-ociates occupy the bottom of the rotten scale if we were to rank people & the honour they possess. There's no honour in politics & what politicians do, & we ought to be ashamed of not doing shit about it.....


The anaxagoric permutation permutes permeably the idiosincratic gun god left under my pillow so I could murder this as-a-matter-of-fact gruesome wish I bore when I woke up after my own beliefs disgraced me to besmirch the sole mind trip I have kept to feel alive...



I shan't give up on anyone. Especially her.


Certain tune, tune which I have unexpectedly created, reverbs in my head after what I could have never thought I could have foreseen. In spite of the usual discomfort, I vainly + plainly embrace the verve I acquired a couple of weeks ago. Dreaming has never hurt anyone, right? The one who pushes me regards unfeasibility as possibility for my defective speech lacks the emotion + awkwardness I gushed that night. I wish I can bestow my peace of mind.
I must embrace hard pure unpredictability, you understand.