I wanna see your face.

On a Sunday morning at 6.

Unmasked, unmade, summerly sweaty.

Asleep and awake, going back to sleep.

I wanna see your hair fall freely,

Taste your skin,

Touch your lips.

I would find—a piece of who you really are.

I imagine this wonderful.

An old withered sign

A whisper in your ear,

words unknown,

language unspoken,

pure lust,

pure pleasure.

In Ebisu, Shibuya

And related to this, but coming from here.

Why you

And why at this hour

All the poets

See a rebirth

At this hour








5 in 7

I need to remember,
Words meant to console,
May well be

And I did not know, I could like you so much.
Feel close when the distance is still wide.
When I saw you, I saw an old friend in your eyes.
As if, remembering you from a past life.

Do not thank me.
I simply exist.
In this space.
In this time.
Where our paths are crossing now.

Rather, thank yourself.
To be brave to live one more life.
Move and feel and see.
Only brave souls live in this time with open eyes.

Being around you makes me a better man.
Learning from you is a truly great experience.
For all the curiosity I feel.
When we part there is a new memory.


The possible is laid bare by the things we deem impossible.

And the impossible is a celebration of the things we do anyway.

1986, deeply into the East German province

A priest stands, smile, nods.

A friendly word here and there.

It’s Sunday. 4 hours earlier he woke to “Owner of a lonely heart”.

And woke the whole family.

I am 6 years old.

Running around.

Imagining what it’s like to be respected like this.

Not knowing the hate and fear flying in his face every day.

I imagine being like him.

Not knowing the fight he fights for my future.

Not yet understanding the brutalism of the regime we live in.

But soon I will be called pig son of the pig priest.

Soon I will draw a robot eating weapons when we write lyrics about the great national army.

And not too long after that the system will fall with the wall.

But until then, my father impresses me.

Last summer was a drunk fairytale

Listening to that now old song.

Feeling the warm summer breeze.

Tasting the starlight in my hair.

Feeling the tenderness on my skin, that never came.

Remembering that last night I played anyone’s expectations game and we both lost.

Seeing you again, that last time, leaning over the wall, looking into the banana plantation, those trees I wanted to climb.

Your lustful looks at me linger on in my mind.

And I am still never truly gone.


Nothing ever truly makes sense or has to. The joy is in what happened and what was imagined.

It leaves us with a taste of closeness and longing.

You know what I would do if I knew I could.

Hug you.

Nothing more.

A physical expression.

Of deep admiration.

I would like to reach out again and say: you are good.

My thankfulness is out of bounds.

Philosophical thinking

Re: The 10 Best Philosophy Books For Beginners

“This is actually a difficult question — which philosophical texts are best for beginners? But it’s also one that I get asked pretty regularly. I typically suggest starting with Plato, and occasionally delve a bit deeper into the topic, but admittedly haven’t devoted the thought and attention it really deserves to give a proper answer.”

Sorry. I cannot read past that, it makes me shudder. Honestly, the best way to learn philosophical thinking is to question, anything and everything. Then go to a book store, to the philosophy section (or religion or semiotics or anything else that sparks inspiration) and look for a book or title that fascinates you. Read that. Go from there. A path will open itself, coz philosophers have the (sometimes) annoying tendency to quote one another. Boom, rabbit hole.

Honestly, start with the classics if you want to show off. They are important to read if you study philosophy I guess, academically. But all thoughts are always repeated, so if Plato speaks your language cool, if you prefer something more modern, try Nitzsche (also his poems which are beautiful and unjustly maligned). The ideas don’t change, the wonders don’t change. The language does change and the people writing it.
And make an effort to seek out women / differently gendered thinkers. They are you there. And usually better thought out.

My last priest, the one who performed my Confirmation, told me a great wisdom: every thought is a prayer, because God, no matter their name, their number or their ascribed actions, lives in everything we do, in us, so every thought is a word in gods ears, a mirror (perhaps darkly) of our self.
Philosophy is like the air we breath and the food we eat. Everything is philosophy, everything is thought. And if you have a faith, a prayer.

For an academic or perhaps a young intellectual, I may be too tainted by Sophie’s World (the book, which remains amazing).

In the end, we all ask ourselves, why those dancing shadows on the walls are reborn every morning and how we can escape that endless cycle.

2020/2/4–5, to and inspired by Anna!