A Kite-Hahn gig.

Innumerable, spotless windows
give way to red wine sofas,
shelves of curious Siddharthas
and indomitable Quixotes.

The warm dimness of the passageways
is a series of wooden mines
where the light within mossy pages
awaits to be unleashed.

Kamala sits expectantly,
her womb aching for streams of honeycomb,
and dreams of technicolor exuberance
wantonly desire the burnt grass plains of Spain.

At the far end of the musty hall
a lonely bewitched pair of eyes
flutters away from a million worlds and suns
back into the dull sound of rain.


Two days to wake up from a nightmare called Odradek.

Five days to gasp in awe in the middle of a psychedelic Monet dreamworld.

Fifteen days to step into my very own reverie, if only for the blink of one summer.


“No one, of course, would occupy himself with such studies if there were not a creature called Odradek.”
—Franz Kafka, The Cares of a Family Man

All my worries, my fear and my rage, are contained in the hermetism of seven letters. What are you, Odradek?

Nach Hause

Today a guy with moles around his nose and mouth pointed at a tiny calendar and informed me of the date I am to pick up my ticket to go home.

Oh, how gladly will I walk down the street under the blazing sun that day!