a road movie








Hollywood spoilt me for real life. I can't be happy just with half-true living time...Unreality is so perfect, so bright...I am willing to be part of that.


The road is just the road when feet walking on it define its direction. Unless it has some item on top, it is only a long dusty carpet acting as an awful decorative element on the landscape....

If you could leave the road for a second, and find a parking place in the desert, maybe you would be able to see the heat coming out of the roasting stones in thin, almost solid waves that deform everything...

Then, the dream of water, the imagined lakes on the distance, would placate the yearning for company in the desert, in the loneliness... A mirror on a pupil, a second of floating dust, a cigarette lighting up, his hands laying on the steering wheel.

And the words. Thinking, breathing, talking about time, splitting. Meaning is dissolved in the heat. You hear nothing. A hand trembles. The cigarette falls to the ground. Dripping tears. A body falls. His body. The heat is coming out of your gun, now. Fate is running to catch you. And silence comes back after the noise of his words and your shot dies away. The car, shocked, takes a minute or two to find its way back to the now fully real road. Dust will cover him, not rain. And you are off, off for the real world.

And you can throw all his cigarettes out of the car, through the window, to pave the unreal road on your back...

You know, it is not right to say the wrong words. Not to me. Not on the road.



I love Hollywood endings. Let me flee driving away to the west, and find a more suitable script for my perfect Hollywood movie

ice skating

Morning light found me
Ice-skating on the shadow
your cold breath left on my pillow
just before dawn.

Unwanted,
all my attention
spent the small hours knitting
winter hats and woolly socks
to warm us up through the windy night.

`It’s cold in here’
you said, your eyes half there,
and yet
half behind the glassy ice

‘Yeah’ I said, coming closer,
-my unwanted attention
dressing us both with her lonely night's clothes-

‘I gotta work’ and the ice
made crushing noises as you left the bed.
‘It's not that late’ I said, and I meant it.
‘Yes, it is’ and you meant it as well...

My unwanted attention keeps on knitting.
She doesn't know yet you're not coming back.