The airport is a morgue.
I can identify this body: He’s a lover...

On quieter days, I catch
myself laying on...

He grabbed his notes from
the underground, fingers brushing...

Beautiful.
I’m writing again, which translates...

In, thoroughly
then out, slowly...

I am more like
a surreal painting...

Look, the celsius degrees
are sneering at our thirst...

The ocean is fathomless and welcoming.
Arms outstretch above...

Go on.
Speak of foreign lands...

I never said this, dear martyr,
but I still remember when you punched...

It feels light to you, doesn’t it?
The weight of this...

In funerals,
I’m used to wearing...