'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Friday, October 01, 2004


All the insects around me are Angels and they contain within them the messages inside my heart. As I sit here and see them in front of me and at the borders of my vision I feel as if I'm bathing for an instant in an ethereal sea of love. I have killed Angels and I have stripped myself of wings but sometimes, just sometimes I can fly again.