all alone she moves

Carry on, carry on until you reach the hallway made of gold

purple rain

savoir baiser

Some time ago I kissed a boy. To me, he was really just a boy though, in fact, for the society, a full grown up man. What can I say? Every male who is more than 4 years younger than me, to me, is a boy.

The boy and I inhabit different planets: he belongs to the skaters sub-culture, dropped out of college because “he makes his videos anyway, what could they possibly teach him at school?” and we have so little in common that it´s for me still quite inexplicable that we reciprocally found us funny and kind of liked each other. 

Fact is that the boy is, in a very uncommon way, sweet and pretty fascinating in his slightly arrogant yet somehow low key self-confidence. He loves to flirt and he seems to have a natural talent for that. 

Doubtlessly, he has a talent for  kissing. So, a late summer evening some weeks ago, this silly red fruit inexplicably found herself in a park, with the sun setting, kissing this boy.

For hours.

Nothing more and nothing less.

One beautiful and somehow forgotten pleasure; it was like being 14 again, blissfully enjoying the moment without thinking of any potential evolution of the situation. Since there wasn´t any possible evolution of the situation. 

Today I was thinking of the Synagogue in my town and I remembered that it was in front of that building that I met the boy the first time. And it made me think of the evening at the park. Though I will quite probably never see the boy again, the recollection made me smile, like a dreamy teenie. 

So, boys and men of the planet, I have a little suggestion: never, ever ever ever underevaluate the importance of the tiny, dazzling, simple things in life. 

And the importance of learning thoroughly - and never unlearn - to kiss well.  

the art of writing

I stole this picture from the web. It was in an article about an abandoned, decaying mental hospital around NY.

I fell in love with the shot, the shape and light balance, the soft, dusty colors; it´s almost as if I could reach out my hand and scratch the peeling walls, breathing in the dump air of the solitary place and hearing the echo of the clicking typewriters.

So sorry not to be able to give credit to the author of this picture. But thank you, for your art.