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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

Mad World (a scary song)

no words

a sort of homecoming (speaking English)

It's our pleasure to serve you

an expat holiday

directions

more than winter (the fool)

adjustments

messy clocks (to be seen)

pianos (a different life)

the imaginary numbers

promises

lining up the bones (saved by chicken shit)

wandering nameless streets (Tony Come Back August)

candy (the cinematographer)

Where is Valery?

the Abraham Lincoln summer

snapshots from the end of summer

burnt toast is the sweetest

What do you want to be when you grow up? (sucker punch)

when you smile (I am a boat)

fumbling in the dark (pushing elephants)

something about rain (E makes a movie)

anything was possible (suffer no more)

white nights and no place to go

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best personal blogs