Its worth is only realized when it goes up in flames.
Youthful stationery, monographed with a name you don’t respond to anymore.
flatter than the surface, orienting a trajectory that always returns to this terrain—hitting a wall, looking for a way in. Or out. Someone Else’s Country.
In the age of screens, the newspaper is more a phantom limb than the childhood nickname,
, now flattened, haptic, both the foundation and the result
Here something is subversively and subtly bent, a square that becomes an ouroboros.
Photo: This Is the Color of My Dreams
Squeeze.
Fatal error: Uncaught Error: Call to undefined function set_magic_quotes_runtime()
Li Tobler was not made of chocolate, and neither was her life.
The Whole World Is One Atom Station
The Writing of Stones
The line down the highway is white,
the color of the sky before Prokofiev.
Twenty-five,
Icy light.
Survival is a shrine, not
The small space near the
Limit of life
The neighborhood protected him and the church guided him.
we live on the hyphen,
In dreams all material is
Anke just went fishing.
She left her parents at home.
The rest she carried in a plastic bag.
The day was hot and warm.
Im ein ani li, mi li