.3

i like playing guitar very softly, on the threshold of audibility. and singing to its tones, it sounds beautifully at night. playing lullabies to myself - a bit insane. and then - almost falling asleep. oddly enough, at times i find more rest and relief in these moments than in a dream. 

leaning over the angle between guitar body and neck, when you smell the timber and feel it glide under your fingertips - it's almost like singing somebody to the ear. as if there wasn't only echo in the room. as if there was a breath. 

it is strange that you do not remember
any of your poetry, william blake

.I

the only thing we tend to forget about halos 

is that their edges are sharp like nothing in this world

.2

sometimes

the only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable

dear Arthur. i have a letter written to you, dated 22nd october 2004. 

wish we could run out on the street together, straight into the rainy night, and fall asleep in one of those forgotten attics of paris. soaked and understood.

.1

 8 x 8 is a variation. or a dog

to stop believe is to die. to stop believe is to kill. i guess that's what Peter Pan is about. it has suddenly become the core thought of this novel for me: 

when you stop believing in fairies, one of them dies

it can be anything: a friend. love. scent of freesia. guardian angel. ability to fly. goodness. authenticity (truth is too pretentious). beauty. 

but - what if Barrie was too diplomatic to express the idea in its full extension? that if we stop believe in a person, he or she dies. or maybe a part of him/her. 

maybe the most important part