Spoken words are beautiful, but they die out in the air like the transient lucency of smoke rings. Who says smoking is harmful? Each time I smoke, I have the primordial creative spark at hand. It also helps measuring my days in cigarette butts.
No less transient but even more transcendental is the beauty of the snowflake. Hold me lightly, and I'll sit pretty. Try and grasp me too hard, and I'll melt in your palm. I'll drip out, fall on the ground and freeze again. But then I'll fly out. On a song and a prayer. Far far away, to a time that outlives eternity.
This is not a place where random expressions of grief are welcome. This is a deliberate exercise in pessimism. As deliberate, as desperate, and as painful as shredding your wrists with a blunt hacksaw. Welcome to my arena...
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