He kisses her. She wants to believe him, so she says nothing.

Note 1013
Just disappear off the horizon, don’t even finish a sentence. Let all the pieces fall where they may. Shrug your shoulders and walk off like nothing was ever there. That’s how people handle entanglements in this time. Run as far and as fast as you can, it makes no difference. Thanks.

Note 1048
I’ve hated May and June for the last 11 years. Like a plate full of needles that you have to swallow. Thinking “well if things all land in the right place” it will be fine. But odds are that will not happen. Just digest. And the metal will taste like blood. And it will paint your face even if you are quiet as fuck. Charge on. I leave marks over my shoulder for every time I have to walk by something I don’t care to even touch. Throw it all the fuck away. It’s everyone’s answer anyway.

Note 1037
I’ll hashtag #wastedtime or some other fucking witty crap to throw into a sparkling bucket of social garbage. Like it matters anyway as people are fueled by “likes and thumbs” so much they believe it’s going to ignite themselves in a way that makes them sleep again. Good luck with that.


“I’m not a poet. I’ve never moved anyone with my words. Maybe that’s why they chose me.” – Solaris



A million ancient bees began to sting our knees.


“Only by being silent, only in the darkness could we still become free for a short while, only in brief periods of distraction that the despair besieging us on every side turned into merely a momentary suspension of the torment.”

–Stanisław Herman Lem, Solaris 1961 // 2011 Translation


The guardrail will take you home. 


“I was beyond fear and despair.  I was further on; no one had ever gone that far. I touched her neck with my lips, then went lower down, to the little hollow between the tendons, that was smooth as the inside of a seashell.” – Stanislaw Lem, Solaris

Orbit drive by.



Driving today, as if I was spinning. Spinning lengths of memoirs across the road as I moved on towards the place. Waves of conversations and disasters gouging at me. I get closer to it all, while it just splinters more and more. Like film across the windshield, fast forwarding and stopping at parts, to where I can see just enough of an expression, the look towards something and then the look away.

You always have to move fast, faster than it. Or it will unwind you and all of your tape, it will untie all of your stitches so everyone can see.

The ridiculous season again. I still breathe it in and it goes straight to the rooms that it knows so well. Like coming home to a well made bed. They will always find their comfort, somewhere behind the rigid edges of what you wish you were all so content with back then. There will always be a hardwood floored room and a wall of screened windows that I know remains hinged to the back of my head until the day I die. It’s just something you can never undo or unwire, like years of old paste over a cigar box. It just will never go away. It’s one of those strawberry moments that are not even worth the telling because you know, you know that other soul will never see it as you do. I tell myself I’m lucky for that.

And I know you didn’t make me this way, I stood there and took it for much too long every time. I have grown strong in empathy with that. I should have turned back sooner in every case. Every year. Every time. I always kept telling myself just a bit longer and maybe it will make itself right. Maybe they will fix the scattered and worn pieces across the floor. They never did.

I tried. I really tried. I had countless conversations with you not in the room. Over and over in my head, me versus the walls. Like bullet points, back and forth, openings and closings – judge and jury. Debating to myself that maybe I could have flipped a switch and prevented one last disaster had I tried one second harder, one second longer. Or had I sent that one last text message that I hesitantly deleted outside my patio at 3am.

But really why should anyone have to do any of those things. Why should it even matter. I gave more than I have ever given to anyone. Sealed. Waxed. And in stone. Whether you read it or not. It was always there. It was always yours. You just never came home to open the box.

It’s late everyday at my house. My nights are long. I sleep mostly when I can’t think – and if I’m lucky I get a lucid delusional dream that puts me somewhere between me and you in a place where I just can’t touch anything but I sure am able find ways to feel everything over again, like the texture of the walls stumbling through a dark apartment hall.

I made myself forget most of the good things, just enough of them to make me not want to relive any part of it anymore.


“I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumbled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.” 
― Stanisław Lem, Solaris | Summary & Study Guide

From strawberries under torture one may extract all sorts of things.


“We didn’t know each other well. I never had the time. Now I see that it doesn’t make any difference. The ones who hurry and the ones who take their time all end up in the same place. Just don’t have any regrets. No regrets.” 

“She was beautiful all right, beautiful in a way that was at once seductive, demonic, and raspberry.”- Stanislaw Lem

I left after that dance.



Note 378
Every day is like pressing reset for a juggling act. You have to keep focused. You have to water down everything that you are feeling so that you can just make it through the day. The constant rewind, fast forward, pause & repeat is like throwing a wrench into a gear. The unexpected jolt, and harsh landing are something that even though the moments are dull – that first landing, that first brash dragging of things over your face at the waking of the day, I just don’t like any of that anymore. Now, it’s becoming too much.

Note 399
And being here again, over and over. The retelling of a story. I sigh. I throw everything away I can physically touch. I’ve torn up every letter, every picture, anything that takes me and plays back things that are gone. I would eat them if  I could. Just ready for the ink wash to just run off of me. So ready for that.

Note 254
It’s like a hole on the back side of your heart. No matter how hard your chest beats at the moment, even when its full of everything positive that the feelings just flow directly forward – in front of you like a beam, they just end up spilling down,  spraying out the back side of that void. It’s just not closed yet. It’s not that time. That process has not run it’s course. The guilt, of opening up finally. I wish I hadn’t. Sometimes it’s just not worth it.


She reached out for the switch and darkness fell. I lay down on the cold bedding and felt the warmth of her breath drawing closer. I put my arm around her.

“Tighter”, she whispered.

Then after a long while: “Kris!”


“I love you.”

I felt like screaming.

Stanisław Lem, Solaris