I thought that maybe I don’t want to get rid of the bag, but of the idea that the things that accompany us for so long can simply be replaced, just like that.

The best thing you left behind was your brutal tenderness, and even though we remained two strangers, you were my sigh dressed in dreams.

Music, it can be said, travels on the shoulders of pebbles dropped into ponds of still water.

Being inactive is discovering that the world doesn’t collapse if I don’t hold it up. That the house survives the dinosaur. That the couch is also a point of view. That not producing is not disappearing.

The first time the robin appeared, I still didn’t know how to hold the word death in my mouth. It fell apart, like a bite I couldn’t quite swallow.

I hold great affection for this version of myself: the writer capable of convincing others through words, yet incapable of convincing himself.

Escitalopram in the mornings. Pregabalin at night. And if things get intense, Quetiapine.

My objects come to life—they get angry and scold me, because the desire to try slips away through my gaze.

So, I think I'd like you to tell me that everything's fine, that underneath everything's fine, that there are scratches and dents, but that everything's fine.

The world is beastly, roguish, wicked — little garden angels. I have not seen freedom on the hot asphalt, suffocated by rubber, by shoes worn out from fatigue, by baby strollers, by urine, by saliva, by tears. 

They call you dead who do not know you live behind eyelids, inside too-long-unopened drawers, on some postcard lost enroute, tucked into a postman’s back pocket.

I walk against the wind, feeling my body clothe itself in tremor. I have lost my lucidity amid the dazzling, strange lights of this city.