An archive
Turmoil. Outside, a magnificent wind blows. The windows’ hinges moan, scream, and curse at being forced out of their sleeping rust.
Half an exercise. For connoisseurs, and for the refreshment of their spirits.
I want to know exactly how many of your skin’s goosebumps would fit under my finger.
Yes, it hurts, just a little, and there is no way to avoid it.
Waiting, silently.
That which comes in great trust
It really isn’t mysterious at all. Leaving behind a step on a ladder to somewhere, is bound to conjure a sensation of dying a little, much…
I know exactly bugger-all about poetry. It’s not that I haven’t tried, I have, very often, and very hard, too: after all, how could I…
I still have no idea who Eduard Kosmack was. We met by coincidence on a lazy Viennese afternoon.
Epilogue and coda
a.k.a., The Vonnegut Hypothesis
It is a simultaneously frightening and exhilarating feeling to discover that it has taken you this many years to finally comprehend some of…
Une part de bonheur dont je connais la cause.
“Then on the shore of the wide world I stand alone, and think till love and fame to nothingness do sink” — Keats
“I will come”, said Peter, but he sat on for a moment.
This is all your fault.
Who am I to disagree?
Suspended Monologues has no stories yet.
