Cycling on a Friday Afternoon

A martyr-satyr
You always needed one
A blank canvas
Ends up drawn to you

Love is not about not being lonely
Love is not about that one and only
A brown giant never makes a star

A flower-shower
So easy to have one
Language of love
Consumes all of you

Love is not about making it stay
Love is not about the toys to play
A meteorite never goes oh so far

But what do I know?

A paper-wrapper
Your last resort
A large battle
Ends up drawn on you

Love is whatever you want it to be
Love is about being the true you
Love...

But what do I know?

- October 07th, 2016


That's what she said.

That's what she said. Grafitti from the Savamala burough in Belgrade, Serbia

That thing when you ride a bicycle on a rainy afternoon through a busy city with no lights and a couple of seemingly nonsense lines with a darkwave melody that Peter Heppner would probably sing along to suddenly echo in your head. And then you wonder what's wrong with you, but you rush home to write it down, avoid falling off the bike and all. And you try to write down the simple melody you had for it, but you're not a musician. You then spend the weekend freaking out because you wrote one of those bizarre things out of nowhere again.

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