*chapter 3, where the drama begins

Back into my glory age 15 and its phantasma stories
all that itchy feeling from when I used to wear a watch earrings bracelets necklaces platforms leather skirts lace tops like already being this 30 years old woman
15 years later going straight back there with a Noah’s ark


(few months later)

watching the winter go down from the front seats of a double decker I had this beautiful autumn like feeling at the end of the day: development implies continuity

two guys talking about vegan oyster sauce and vegan chicken pieces (???)

you were talking in your sleep come back with megan fox

and who the hell is meganfox and what are they saying

one bag of mixed mushrooms, they weren’t magic at all but what’s this flavour?

what IS this flavour?


later that day I decided I wanted to write about you and I had a plan I was building my plan like a map
in theory – imperfectly
but when I got to hold a pen I couldn’t do it – so I opened books to find the simplest possible harmonic sequence


It must be exhausting to travel without music / are you playing something in your mind?

I couldn’t find anything so I wondered between libraries
the first one was women’s library (but I’m still on the train – Highbury&Islington such a posh name – high maintenance you once said that you were
but still things aren’t making any sense)


At the library – there was no library
there was this big scaffolding sign on which I could read: sometimes you act like an uncomfortable pair of chopsticks when trying to slurp some noodles but your fingers are butter
my fingers cannot hold you, my hands cannot hold you
sometimes I think I know how to use chopsticks (like when I’m eating the crispy tofu at our favourite restaurant in china town) but then sometimes


my fingers are butter
never mind
I’m taking the train back



*Chapter 2, where the romance begins

there’s a familiar scent in the room when I keep the window open, but it’s not as familiar as it should be; wind is a bit salty like butter and leaves are crisp
leaves back home at this stage of the autumn are soft and velvety, inviting you to go for a coffee in the park just so you can mix the smoke of your cigarette with the smoke of stubble burning.
I’ve been harvested.



Dog&duck they said stands for fuck
londoners and their funny way of talking
like apples&pears stands for
or whatever

and even if George Orwell did go to dog&duck
for drinks with his mates
every single inch of london says something
I am all over london and london is all over me
and somehow it’s as like I didn’t mind the gap
he said
that’s what actually happened
and he took me in his palms with lines crossing them
upstairs we go
apples and pears for starters
haven’t been so close to anyone in ages
dog and duck to nicely end the evening
trembling and shivering
this is familiar I’m thinking where and when did I –

I didn’t mind the gap me neither

*chapter One, where I run away from home

12219403_1646153878988277_8868682009092114688_n(Nice, 2015)

My grandma used to say it’s forbidden to sew on a Sunday. She didn’t know exactly what would happen if, but she always reminded me of her nightmare

my eyes and mouth were stitched, there was an old lady with a giant needle and red thread sewing my mouth and eyes she was 100 years old 

so I don’t sew on Sundays, just in case the old lady would visit my dreams.

The loose ends

once upon a time in an air plane I read this picture in a book:
strings of yarn
a few hundred strings stretching across the water
passengers leaving for the inside world
they held balls of yarn

the others on the pier held the loose ends, a few hundred strings
every ten seconds slowly flying
as I was shouting farewells waiving furiously

the balls of yarn began to spin – I began to spin
my fingers were part of her dreams now
my footsteps were part of his imaginary home now
my hair and eyes were part of their hopes

I was gone.