• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 04


I try and give meaning to symbols made up of
ones and zeros – the daily gibberish of the modern gods.

I make sense of callmes and iloveyous and understand the silence, my feet
readily spun in the intricate web of impossibilities.

Another email ending with if only somehow
you could have been mine, what wouldn’t have happened in this world?

This world, where our evenings are established on overdoses
of sweet red wine and paracetamol. – On the ritual madness of being;

combed out of commonplace dreams of comfort; of growing out
of all those love stories we wove – once – from soft threads of silk.

I try and give meaning to words that often mean nothing anymore.