A carver of stones once laid a prayer On an ancient wall engirded by a rose bush And the silent stones kept his secrets… …Until at fall the petals fell And the stone tomb cracked in half

Every character has their own drama

to succeed at the impossible, machines must be taught to map unique movements and patterns of thousands of human minds, recreate loops and memories, mistakes , joys and irrationalities, chemistries and triggers of any individual human on the planet

A writer must face themselves every day. Hence, to not hate oneself, they must accept themselves and learn to love. Writing (for me) is only a good thing if it heals and transforms.

I suggest that national literatures are war literatures. Whilst other nations at peace nourish the real (is it really real tho?) identities of diverse men and women, nations at war have no choice but nourish collective national identities.

The evening. I’m sitting on the edge of my backpack in a park packed with people. I do enjoy my patch of grass. I play over some overheard conversations stuck in my head. Admitting to failure is the most humane act on the planet.

I glide the spine of seashore, one lonely wave at a time. My foamy teeth grind stones. I throw myself under your feet like bird feathers. I flood & snap to never always reach you. You ride my tide, which I admire you being happy and alive.

Why? Why why why do first children have it harder? We let them into the world, thinking, they are one. We gave them so much of those wisdom droplets - purest iceberg water- we extend them into ourselves, and us into them. The battle is hard. It’s still going on.

One thing that always gets me is your smile. It’s hard to grasp someone’s love so purely. You smile because I simply am before your eyes today, I feel so cosmic so complete I want to give you the world on a plate.

Соняшники. Ці маленькі сонечка на струнких ніжках із замші та ворсу, ніби виглядають свою маму. Вони, мабуть, далеко, Бо у Відні, я просто зараз бачу їх крізь магнетичне скло електричного потягу, чиї колеса тремтять десь внизу, заглушно, внизу, піді мною, де метал б’є метал.

Я стою у дверях стовпом, і нема чим дишати. Боже, видимий ти чи невидимий, допоможи збагнути. А чи можна піти назад, у секунду де все ціло, любо, чи залишитись отак в дверях, як здрасьте, чи перешагнути цей поріг по-діккінсовськи, подорослішати на пів віку за одну мить?

Їй наче відчулось ніби той вітер, той вітер гірських джерел, ввірвався у місто, і так тихо-тихо поплив між порожніх осель та забрав усе горе, усю порожнечу, поклав в гаманець. І поніс він до себе, до себе додому, назад, в чисте поле, людських сердець.

I’ve got too many old photographs. They’re a day or a decade old. It doesn’t matter, I do get old. I am a girl mama,a lame imposter of rules & postulates. When I’m tired, I regret it instantly, for I love you dearly.

Locking your eyes with someone is just like Intertwining fingertips Licking tongues Flicking your body forward Pure allure of a fluid gesture. It can be a pause, a second too long, An instant too close, Wet palms Watery mouth Latching Cooling Sighing Closing Falling.

Wherever your path takes you— it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful because it’s precisely yours. It’s precious because it will never be fully understood. Or appreciated. Therefore it will forever stay within you, your mind and your heart. The path is a secret and let it be so.

What’s born in the mind is a possibility. What happens on the page is destiny.

It’s the darkest hour falling onto grey grass onto sick leaves, onto everything that breathes and breathers not. The air is bottled up. A dense whirlwind blows me out upside down. No matter what I think, or do, or say, I might be the one who won’t last to see the dawn.

A man went out of his own apartment A walking nobody, scaring the children, the blue of his eyes hidden behind his beard and his grief. Oh, the poor man! To go out like this, confront the afternoon heat after his mother’s just died in his own apartment…

An old carpet is like a book. Do you see the almond shape? That's fertility. Do you see the tree? That's the tree of life. Other signs I do not know. I know only that old spells and wishes are woven between the threads in a peculiar arrangement called destiny.

Colourful bits of linen discarded in a closet. I'll wash them and hang on the ropes and put them out in the sun. An oldest carpet all eaten up and burned out - I found it in the attic. I'll wash it and hang on the rails.