So I am back to my old tactics.

The only place to be silent is among

a hundred conversations.

Among a hundred blurred, indistiguishable

conversations. each of moderate intensity.


I am no longer in awe of existentialist writing.

I no longer seek to translate myself to myself by

literary quotations:

“an unexamined life is not worth living”?

so you say socrates.

sometimes examination is trite and foul.

sometimes it is useless.

perhaps it is better to live and let things burn,

allowing my originality to be expressed

rather than pondering its sincerity, inspiration, utility.


eavesdropping here is a burden.


nothing is hot yet everything burns.

and I believe that it will continue to do so

until new inspiration and creativity rears its

mysterious head.

it awaits manifestation…something waits.

maybe it is in the fire?