yesterday, the air in sydney was so heavy and querulous, i couldn’t even light a cigarette. and i hid my thoughts about london between two stones, between the bougainvilleas and the thick of jasmines and began to read about sumo wrestling instead. a brutal and immediate meditation on how everything depends on what we choose to write, and how we write it. 

so…is pleasure only a minor bliss? is bliss nothing but extreme pleasure? how shall we contemplate the flesh? sometimes i think i am willing to give my life for mortal rhythms, to so much loving that it could drown you like a sea between two seas. 

your hair had that blackness that seemed to withstand the ages, stirring something in me, i thought i had lost, long ago.