Bilingual literary system

A quiet torture chamber for unruly words.

Poetry, prose, essays and books — a public reading room with a workshop hidden behind it.

ENTROPY

Maybe learning is a fractal, not a curve. No matter how deep you spiral, in the end, all you ever master is the dreaming of You or Me.

 Abstract orbital landscape with gently animated string-like lines.

Many dreams. One body. Still changing. Entropy is all that remains.
FROM THE PROSE
Grandma · prose

Grandma

Aside from once being a child with dreams too, she had a closely kept secret. A small window in her bedroom that let her look at invisible things. A secret that one day she shared with me to keep my thoughts from wandering alone through the nearby dark forest.
Read the prose
The Unwritten
A place for what never became a poem.

There was a house I wanted to write about, a house that existed only at sunrise.

I never found the door. It had only a window, high up.
An abstract house appearing at sunrise, with no door and a single high window.
A few doors into the world
THE ARCHIVE
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“The poet is a painter who cannot afford paint, a sculptor who cannot lift the stone. A deaf musician playing the wind to see violins that could be heard. The poet is that stray dog lingering where the village ends — where the wolves feast and the loose women laugh uproariously.”
— Poetry.