We live within webs, that we ourselves create, yet they entangle us so much as if others had created them, and we grow flustered and we stumble. But what a sweet web, this web of being alive, of feeling so

You barely have time to get used to the syncopations in this thing we call life. You think you mastered the rhythm and that you know what comes next, but all of a sudden, this majestic score, authorless, as is,

I always thought, and took it for granted, that wanting to be in the future was the antithesis of being in the present, that it was a form of escapism, a cousin of reliving the past a thousand times in

Fade away, let time do its thing to both of us, I wish I were writing a different tale; I wish I could be sending you another poem, some more cookies, but I don’t like this part of the game

The boat, left to the sea, by the insidiousness of years or by the strikes of countless storms, has laid down on its side, as if floating were a memory from another era. Does its owner know it has resigned