and when it's raining on the avenue, a wind will blow me back to you

take all your medicine, it's gonna make you well. you'll have to run till it's over
i'm sure you'll be able to tell, you'll know it's over for the rest of your life
you're gonna be high. come home. it's something less than a holiday,
when you come home.

-home, the great northern

[witheredbones]

does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of.
i never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent. i never thought about things at all, everything changed.
the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world,
it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings. it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go.
is ignorance bliss? i don’t know, but it’s painful to think. and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me?
to what great place did thinking ever bring me? i think and think and think.
i’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

extremely loud and incredibly close, Jonathan Safran Foer

january, be kind.

i am starting to sense your location, you are somewhere in the basement
beating on a makeshift drum kit songs that I can hardly stomach.
i'm floating up the stairwell, with my fingers shaking frantic
thinking softly what a concrete mess we live in.

- location, freelance whales

[Alexandra Auger&Cürük visne]

some nights, i
watch you sleep.
and my madness,
it quietens
to a dull thud
of the heart.
and you, unaware,
dream away;
exhaling golden hope.

“your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks.
all signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away
by that rush of water. and still the rain beats down on the surface of the river.
every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: that’s it. that’s my heart.”

haruki murakami, Kafka on the Shore

2011 is almost here. 4 more days to go.
january, be kind.