Our imagination flies — we are its shadow on the earth.

Vladimir Nabokov


(& I am not a morning person)

If you use my house as a starting block & walk in a certain direction for about five mintues,
you will reach here.



I bought a new new (old) cardigan from here.

750 000 books

"You know what? When we were here last time we said you'd like this building."

A Week In The City

Five days, five nights of;
ramen, China Town, purikuras, Canon cameras, woolen cardigans, mistaking condoms for Asian lollies, McDonalds, bookstores, icecream, coffee & hot chocolates, crowds, love.


After all the multitudes of songs we shared. And even the ones we didn’t. You might think it strange, how such two familiar notes can make me feel as though I am wearing another person’s skin. These two notes, this one chime rings, through every part of this hollow house, echoes from one wall to another, derisively revealing its emptiness.

A shaking hand is all it takes for forgotten memories, our memories, to return to what was once their sanctuary, our sanctuary. They return all at once, as though we have never even forgotten them, as if nothing has changed. Of course, this is an illusion, everything has changed. But everything is how I remember it. Remembered it.

And this silence. We always communicated through the words we didn’t say, the air was delicate enough for our thoughts dance nakedly without words. Even during the silence of the night when Nyx herself slept, we drew thoughts upon the undersides of each other’s eyelids.

Here you are. Eyes exactly as I remember, although apparently uncomfortable in their sockets, searching in every direction for a familiar point to focus on. And they cannot find one. Our eyes try to meet, but time has disfigured them into two pairs of identical facing magnets and now even the thought of one another repels us.

Tired of searching, your vitrified eyes rest solemnly on your boots. In our brief shared existence you never once wore boots. Trudging away from it all, constructing an exoskeleton, is this how to forgot?

Removing one boot and then the other, my eyes perch on your blistering feet and out of the corner of my eye I see you seeing me. This cycle continues as you remove your snow covered overcoat, and the jacket underneath. You have travelled so far to remember the things you were so willing to forget.

A long-lost equanimity returns as soon as you part your lips. Even if you can’t remember the words you are going to say it is comforting to think that you want to say something at all. It is the first time someone has attempted to talk to me since the day before that day.

And then I see it; a drop of water sliding down your left cheek. Another down your right. I recognise my deformed reflection rolling down your face and your tears become mine. Your body merges harmoniously with the moonlight through the veil of tears. I am crying all the tears I did not cry the day after that day. Our legs shake violently as down becomes up. I can no longer see in this overwhelming light, but I make out a voice…

and we susurrate,

“I. I am,”