Travel log. A weekly.

designed for everyday life but mostly out of range between various small fires nightly on WEB a dog chews a skirt or a scooter carries a bucket of water as a chariot carries a peacock to a jolly good show.

Non-accidentally spread colors reign, everything seems to be there, to be there rightly, where it has to be, right spread on the spot, without doubt, painted by a master’s hand. the colors divide above and below, at the same time shedding darkening shadows on the library.  watching the sky corridor go grey, the view then slips off of the picture, so let’s stay with the colors. the bridge serves as the horizontal gap by which the picture can be divided. the dark slumber on the cold concrete, cancelling off sound, wears a certain tonality from the background off. which opens up to massive giants of stoic label, who had moved to the sides, whilst guarding the view on the vintage side of the library of Oslo as if to strengthen the grace of the small building. what is not there? somewhere in the newer parts of the library lie stories that will be published only in a hundred years starting from 2014. take a look into the orange womb of books being bred in(to) a hundred years, above the bridge, underneath the library.

Can you read this?
– No.
– It’s Bataille in the background. I mean the writing on the window.
– Ah, I see. (smiling)
– Isn’t it strange that the door is open in the background?
– What’ya mean? (puzzled)
– Because you don’t know if the group of people is entering or leaving.
– I see. (still unsatisfied)
– Writing Bataille on the window – does that make sense at all? Hm, maybe, in case it is an urge to show where you are standing?
– Yes, I assume you are right, but Bataille leaves it up to you if you want to enter or not, right?
– I would strongly suggest that you should enter to get satisfied, though.

A lioness’ love.
section: problems cannot be solved. they can be forgotten. imagine sweet situations that are not going to happen. Now imagine in the morning.

Rock’n’roll expat
Waiting at the station. You ask what I remember? Lemme think. The first thing I can remember is that I cried a lot as a baby. I probably tested my parents or was already preparing for my career or both. Now that I think of it, I was surely crying to the moon. That is what poets are supposed to do, no? No?

One weeks curriculum
Monday I got up, reading.
Tuesday I got up, reading & acceding.
Wednesday I got up, reading & spread ink.
Tuesday, I got up, reading & proceeding to a new spot.
Friday, I got up, reading & succeeding. Sent cheers to the crowd.
Saturday, I got up, readin’ & strollin’ & breedin’ over finality.
Sunday, I got up, reading & receding, book opening, book closing.

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