I usually keep my life hidden,
choosing for the most wayward of...

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When she was an innocent girl...

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There's nothing quite like writing about the rain...

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humans talked storybook selves...

I burn to release,
send cigarette tips moving...

I once heard that Tokyo, at night, is like a lost...
There are no businessmen to see, to act unbroken...

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She threw paint around...

What do any of us know about anything?
I made a house for you...

All other voices are blocked out.
The scratching throat of the wind...

The sadness in her eyes is escalading forgotten...
hours slowly turning into a trailer of days, then...

The shades of your eyes are
mountain ranges that apprehend...

Panoramic irises
love like landscapes...