blog posts

Johann Sebastian Bach - Goldberg Variations (feat. piano. Glenn Gould) (1955 recording)


i hardly like to talk much. that is to say, i very usually don't like to express myself casually in this kind of way, as though talking. i try to suppress this desire as much as it possibly can be suppressed, until it becomes a neccessity. i can permiss a neccessity: all else is soundless words.

conversations especially i have come to find so unpleasant. what purpose do they serve? it seems most that are not without meaning can be intuited as to the purpose, and what remains is merely "i'm sorry" and "goodbye". it's uncomfortable; it's sad.

i wish i could not add so many words to the world. i feel there's more than enough, and i fear i'm drowning in them already. words and uselessness, and my own useless words.

i wish i could sit in silence and bear the passage of time, quietly and forever.

long road, no turns

"Listen to the ducks gagging in the diluted urine!" - Mireille, Mort à crédit (Céline 1936)

I wish I could say I have high hopes for the year ahead, but, well, you ought to know..

but luckily, there's always the dark behind one's eyelids to hide away. For now, at any rate.

and we still have Gould's Bach. enjoy. happy new Year, my friends.


words exhaust themselves. what a lovely way of putting it.

here's to another year spinning the roulette wheel of human lies and all the unintentional propaganda inbetween.

i don't know. it's getting harder to keep up. the accidental sanctuaries are dried up now, even in that "sensitive vulgarity", or however you please. stupid. cogitative. i don't know. i don't mean anything.

working on trying to make this website look prettier without irreparably damaging the feel of it. if something looks broken i'm probably working on it. thanks for understanding!

little songs


me, the turpentined zingara,

an insoluble imbecile in soluble dreams

the first

time i ever once smelled in that dicacious land of the thief of unwakefulness,

honeydew patch of slumber,

it was your voice, all scathing criticism and whisky,

and it was all breaking down, of course:

the walls and the hugo simberg paintings and the texture of the scenery, all of it,

i knew it to be a dream.

moon dripping with blood like honey or honey-blood,

and your face became mine,

and my breath was barbed-wire and burnt-corked,

and how i couldn't scream!

how sound could not be rend from my throat or diaphragm,

how there was no air to which sound could be birthed!

just a night of many, i'll

close the portcullis on it, on me

and steal into the solitude of a bottle.

and when i woke again,

my breath was the rosy miasma of cheap vodka,

clad in dismembered countenance and the sharp amber daggers of delirium tremens,

at 6:59 A.M., under the emetic and blinding lamp that read "LIQUOR"

and he knew i looked like death incarnated onto a plyword sheet and sundered in half with the dirty cistern of a woman's shithouse,

and i knew he knew, and he sold me another two half-gallons of booze anyway,

people are sometimes lovely that way. and some are not.

and again i traveled outwards and not upwards;

and again all the faces were fashioned, and hid they utter shittiness under the guise of semi-immaculate pleasantries,

and again all the eyes were mannequin eyes

and again all my eyes were warm tears and vodka;

a dying man out of many, gravely-ill silhouette slipping into the grave of twilight,

tastebuds all bile and the mauve taste of blood,

and the choir of the common conscience against my fucking ears again and again,

"Why so somber?"

"Why so somber?"

great pretenders on waxen wings,

i cannot share in your unconcious conscience, leave me be to drown myself in it all,

in it all,

while the tender earth swiftly awaits your fall,

your dysprosium hearts with nary a troy fucking ounce of compassion therein,

damning yourselves with the superearthly,

while i damn myself with that which is all-too-earthly indeed,

(it's very possible that we're both wrong!)

my drunken and viscious outrage of words spat through tar-stained teeth dripping onto paper like delinquent tears,

all the while there is no living man to be seen, again and again..

all i have

and all i am

is the gentle closedness of my eyes



all in the ears, the ears

canine and apoplectic stupidities on the backdrop of empty wonders,

and the dark that is empty,

so damn empty, they lied and they were wrong,

the heroes of yesteryear,

suffering begets but funereal wisdoms you take to the grave,

"we cannot be left to suffer!"

"we cannot be left to suffer!"

i wonder about that...

our blind stumblings to the exit aren't good because they are not bad,

our streaks of hollowed blood aren't love because they are not hate,

my screams aren't free because they are not grandfathered,

street signals on backroads go to sleep at 12 o' clock sharp

while i lay awake.


inconsolably blank stares follow me in haphazard grace;

burning tongues like pentecost, blabbering amiable curses my way,

it hurts, good Christ it hurts!

familiar teeth of their chatter still burns my skin like rampant arsenic,

decayed rubber veins bulging in obsequious ugliness,

longing for the death-smothering of your couch pillow or

anything, anything but this thing,

finally they withdraw from the closeness of my ears

and go somewhere to live or die

in coerced madness


endless summer workdays eat all the flowers, all the time for flowers

coming to the end of everything that can ever happen to you

it is the center of fire


the rain too is older, its

droplets performing their once-gentle kisses,

A seasick song of a thousand wayward lilies,

sticking circs until they're dead dead like the park flowers,

smiling all the death-smilings of mouths full with dirty pyroxene;

she was like a perfect cigarette, unsmoked and unsmoldering and never intended for such a thing,

but something unpredictable happened:

she went up in the flames of beautiful and hitherto unspoken words, and her smoke was poetry, too,

and i was lucky enough to be crowned sole witness of her mauve and lovely burning,

and i thought, too, that hers would be a burning of ten-thousand passion-years, but it wasn't.

it was two years and then she left us, maybe because she was better than any of us could ever be, and she probably knew it, too;

and that was it,

my eyes were so adjusted to the blaze that it left me in darkness too profound to bear,

left me stumbling insanely over the corpses of vodka bottles i'd murdered to the last drop, a graveyard

hers and mine,

and when my eyes finally adjusted once more to the darkness of before there was nothing any longer to see,

(or maybe there never was)

just ordinary people reflecting the same baseless nothingness to each-other,

all hollow ghosts full of hollow love,

invsible dances and perpetuation of fatuous superficialities,

and i came to understand why you left in such a damned hurry:

there's nowhere here to go to!

what a horrible emptiness we all share.


i find myself a foreigner in this bizarre dream of living,

and everyone's laughing and crying and full of stomach acid and sertraline,

how good for them! their viscious merrymaking,

society full of silicone bones and august radiowaves gone all too sour,

it's so.. uncommonly ugly, so steeped in gratuitous violence, once again!

"rain shines, moon pours..."

dollar bar and sleepy whores,

we're all rooted on a plane of taffy stretched far too thin,

and the weight is too much! far too much!

we're in freefall and we're too damned occupied with nothing in particular to do anything at all.

hell, it'd be worth dying if it was for something,

for anything,

but we're not often too good to our thoughts,

we just tend to waste them on flashy nothings, waste like nose-waste into a tissue,

blow, wad, flush..


it's a perplexing notion

how terrifying and meaningless it all seems to be,

how each tick of the clock brings us ever the more close to that

personal darkness we're all soon to slip into once and for all,

all the little songs dying here and there on the way,

all the accidental eeriness of discordant dreams of homes-no-longer,

stalked ceaselessly by the vague apparitions of those ungodly blue maggots called sin,

undue hearts heavy with due rent, and the infinite solemnizations of our perpetual uselessness,

yes, life has too often little to do with feelings...

a slight life and a smaller way to go..

palpable melancholy pours from improper death-beds,

languid convulsions into the last dying light,

called home, maybe,

maybe it's home, after-all...

winter sleep, and wine-stained poems for the dogs.


sometimes the dark makes sense

in this

play without a plot,

this endless waiting for the familiar pull of strings that will not come;

sometimes, the dark just makes sense

in the monotony of before-dawn,

when being and nothingness become a semantic blur like cockroaches and their shadows close to the wall,

when you can just vaguely pretend it's not all emptied-out,

that we're not damned to the meaningless and the always dull,

that all of our punctuations aren't just exhaustions and disgust,

that it's not all Liquormen and excruciations like it is, ass-banditry and existential infirmity,

that there's still a breath of air left somewhere around here, somewhere, unslept and wine-maddened at 3:13 in the morning, in the dark.

"ceci tuera cela"


lobotomy-eyes and a withered lecture, yes, those ones with the ceaseless and sharp gaze of their deathadder countenances,

just nothing and rotting that's the sum of them and their brazen pilferings, nothing and rotting!

the intraversable futility of this, idiot ghost i am, all uncalculated indifference to all the carefully crazy,

(and too much of everything is carefully crazy),

i am the faint promise of a smile among all the delirious and seething cabbages, a corseted existence,

so as not to spill into the sunset or the freeway or into anyone else; but this unconditional ally i know as separateness leaves me so strangely and nakedly bored:

i've a lot of time to mull it all over.

the passage of time is like a phantom and idle bleeding, but the blood isn't visible, it's like a wound that by all rights ought to be able to be seen

for how obvious it seems,

and yet, nothing: just the margin-feeling of decay, a tertiary uncomfortability you cannot shake, with all the perturbing beauty of the bad dream.

but it's not that certain, nothing is, it's all steeped in a viscous ridiculousness that gives things the irreal and tentative sheen of the floating bubble and its miraculous and precarious surface tension,

a transient and precious luster unique to things that just barely are..

we are like torn paper on galvanized iron sheets, both things just as absurd as the other, two bizarre uglinesses refracting each other's light,

but mostly i do not know, it is hard for me to grasp the hows and whats and whys of anything at-all,

smithereens, smithereens,

it all comes down,

my mother said that to me once, when i was a boy..

i don't think i've ever understood how to write poetry though i am supposedly a poetry-writer of some description,

supposedly i am a drunkard yet i don't understand how to be a drunkard, i just tend to drink and look at pictures of Lenny Bruce and babble on about how pretty i think he is..

cornered fury and cornrowed mischief and timeclocks and televisions,

and most of the time i'm left to wonder just what all this is that i find myself in the middle of,

what the hell is this place?

and sometimes i feel like i'm on the edge of grasping a memory of something else, a

justification for this constant and pervasive feeling of my own misplacement,

almost there, almost there and


when my mind finally arrives,

the memory is gone, the memory and the words someone

took them

when i needed them most.

no title

it's been a while since i've bothered to come here. frankly i really never wanted to again for various reasons, all of them based around prevailing delusions of being judged, ridiculed or generally laughed at by somebody or something. i don't even know how this thought crept so insidiously deep into my mind so suddenly, but it has managed to destroy almost entirely what little quality of life i had remaining. this place was really my only significant quasi-social outlet and i felt i had to abandon it (even considered just deleting it outright) for fear of further and irrevocable indignations. writing poetry had been my main source of emotional reprieve and i stopped writing for the same fear, even just poems never intended to be shared i decided not to write, because i could not escape this pervasive and terrifying sense that even alone and away from any active technological devices i was being actively judged and criticized. i've felt so unbelievably sick in every sense of the word. i suppose i return here out of necessity, after the damning realization that i do not have any person real, semi-real or imaginary, that i trust with any amount of confidence to speak to about even the most trivial affairs any longer. this bout of psychological and existential nausea has almost entirely brought me to my knees. i have genuinely considered praying to God, or whoever the hell, on the off chance that maybe it would do something or anything at all. but honestly, if i happened to pray and feel better and it were not, for instance, just a placebo or coincidence, i fear as to what that would mean; that we are slaves to an all too egoist god that seeks only to break us until we submit?

at any rate, to the likely non-extant cabal of people who laugh at all the things i write, say, do or think: i'm sorry that i was born myself. i wish it would've turned out any other way instead.

ineffably tired

it's as if the act of living has transposed into nothing more than mere waitings, as it were: ceaseless and serial anticipations for something, for what.. the expiration of time alone? but as time passes by it doesn't appear to pass through; the accumulation of expired time seems as though it weighs on body and mind with significant encumbrance, and every movement thereafter becomes inexorably slower and duller and more slightly unbearably uncomfortable,

Christ it's as if all i am is apprehension and tobacco smoke masquerading as a fucking person; maybe that's all i ever was?


wishing you goodluck and Kindness in all of our ever-evolving worst semi-mental breakdowns ever.

emaciated and now quiet once-cacophonies give birth to the defeaning silence of today; all we have is the methodical hum of factories fashioning infatuation out of polyvinyl-chloride to drown out the maddening vaccuum of m(eaningless)uted sound that spills from the pores of every city street and every rattling radiator in some grandmother's basement and every deteriorated news-paper stand with a creaky door.

my love goes out to you, o clandestine cartographer, your platonic and sun-bathed heart held so gently out of sight from the watchful eyes of above and below and of the man you sleep next to at night, for fear (and rightfully so) that they should tear away your soulful flesh-core from your very breast and dine in egregious bouts of hate and hedonism upon the love that dwells therein, their endless ritual-toil in search of miserable fixes for their chronically unsparkling humility;

o, you silentmost of cartographers, tear into my skin with the satin of your nails: won't you carve unto me the path to myself?

are you not my mirror, dear cartographer? not the reflection of your eyes but the very flesh of your body, gorgeously seeping with the plumpness of self-love?

am i not your mirror, basking in your painfully unaffectionate gaze, a look one can only truly rend upon oneself?

tell me cartographer! was it that i trusted in myself too much? or have i never trusted im myself enough?

was self-desecration the means to my salvation? or have i merely expedited my damnation?

why do i value the lives of others but loathe to live my own?

i am lost, my lovely cartographer; it is as though every landmark that should by rights exist standing about has vanished into the depths of my vision compromised by torment

the ground bears no distinction and no tracks,

please tell me cartographer,

how do you draw a map of a place with no-where to go?


drank myself into and out-of and back in-to a stupor

seditiously drunken and excoriatingly stupid i

melted gracefully into the cynic and cistern-like twilight and

found myself by the railway tracks, far away from landing territory; i ended up at a sheet of plywood with graffiti on the wall behind: THE LIGHT WAY, it read

i knew i was where i was ought to be, maybe all-along, too;

i thought i was dying from the heat for a few hours, then, i became inexplicably serene; trainspotted until morning light.

in the night searching for my lost phone i


how profound fire is in the darkness

when you most need it

ten-hundred-thousand pounds of steel rushed by at disastrous expedience,

our nation's continental veins bellowed in abject cacophony

bedlam of machinery rupturing my ear-drums on iron rail,

the hot night air became so very cold for a brief minute as it tore past me,

vanquishing my makeshift torch's fire,

leaving me in the darkness the train left behind for me,

the moonlight was bright enough to read, so i had a date to keep with Céline

perhaps my only friend.


i fell in love with a girl who ended up becoming my favorite poet.

she died -- i still can't believe it -- in november, in her college dorm.

i still listen to our recordings, practicing poesy and dramatizing historical figures both lovely and not-so, plastered on the wonder of mutual affection and the blissful forlorness of a lovers' snowglobe reality.

now it seems all there's left is waiting;

just waiting for that sweet, still night,

waiting to become a pillar of salt.


two tickets to Icarie,

where every day is August 32nd

and home to Valle de L'eau

where no-one is playing with the clocks.

nightbirds curiously gorging themselves on the stuff that grows around peach-pits,

and you standing with your gorgeously chapped lips and eyes like decadent daylight full of dreams and disaster both,

and me not knowing what to say i, let forth a steady tone with my voice so as not to offend you with my bludgeoning silence,

wanton streams of the controlled chaos called 'beauty' radiating from your skin wholly perceptible to eyes naked and not,

you just watched me for the longest while i'll ever know,

until the nightbirds flew off to become daybirds leaving behind the orgiastic massacre of fruitflesh and seed in their stead,

until the sun dove below the sudden horizon,

and moonlight cooked us younger with her tender rays,

until i realized in abrupt perfection that nothing would be nicer than to die in the snowglobe of this very moment with you,

until i woke up.


i wish i had the courage to ask someone

to ask anyone

to save me from these beautifully miserable nights,

to bring me back to those hideously pleasant days,

because my vision of the present is deeply stained into the fabric with the guilty-conscience of memories of her i don't feel i deserve,

and through the lens of self-loathing i can't help but to project upon myself

everything is warped and so frustratingly sad,

and so damned bitterly cold,

and so familiarly fucking dark,

i wish someone would just pluck me out of this

torturous sentence

where i feel bound by some undefinable force

to chase after every starburst of poetic thought,

and turn it into something honest and pretty,

i wish someone would rescue me,

from the same old dark and same old cold,

i wish so dearly you would rescue me,

but we both know

there's no-one behind that knock at the door,

is there?






































you can speak to dogs or cats or even houseflies more candidly than any human being nowadays

why that's so is beyond me; my conjecture is that it's some inexplicable mixture of programming and imbecelic obeisance

at the coffeeshop today was a bunch of those crooked cops

some decrepit looking yellow-haired woman was bitching about one of the homeless guys begging for change outside

i know the guy

he's a solid chess player

now, it's just par for the course for police to pick on homeless, that's just how life is in this shithole of a quote on quote "country"

my beef lies with the audacity of this

insipid toiling gremlin

with her new shiny 202X Suburban

who has no other way of exhibiting power in her impotent and unmeaningful existence

than to pick on a good chess player

down on his luck

reduced to groveling for nigh-worthless silver and copper coins stamped with even more worthless men

i hope she lives until one-hundred and twenty-three

so ancient and rotted that she can't even shovel triple-processed shitporridge

down her

worthless, gaping shitpipe

of a mouth

on her own.


the sky at noon was so beautiful i almost felt ashamed to be alive: it was more beautiful than my life, than all of our lives.

my endless search for anywhere at all only brings me to crooked places where love goes to die, newly tarred parking lots adorned with discarded insulin syringes, check-out lines waiting behind someone with only frozen shrimp and a 4-pack of modelo...

i am so unhappy.

there's no point to any of this.

there never was.





生きるって何なんだろう? どうして生まれてくるんだ? ここは一体何だ?




そうならば何故生きないことだけが別なんだろう? 生きないと選ぶのはどこの国でも罪として思われる。どうしてそうなるんだ? 矛盾すぎるじゃないか。どんなに辛くても世間に本能に從わなくさせて、けれども生きないことだけが悪い、生きる本能にだけ從わなくては絶対ならないことだ。どうして? 


この存在っては何かの試しだとしたら、生き続けるか 命を捨てるか、どちらが正解なのだろう。




condemned to incandescent hell-holes or an early grave,

because some of us are too precious and delicate and beautiful for the rest of them

forsaken to solitudine, because some of us believe with absolute conviction that possession of any amount of pride for the self is an unpardonable and egregious sin against existence itself,

because some of us believe life is about playing the piano,

or about being yourself in spite of the weight of the whole world bearing down on your shoulders,

because some of us value life over feeding a machine built to propagate its own existence perpetually,

because some of us are poets, or at least try to be,

because some of us know it's wrong to be injected with neuroleptics just for crying,

because some of us know something is terribly, horrifyingly wrong with the world today,

we've only those two places to go,

a plastic mass-produced hospital bed without sheets or a coffin

because if we don't keep our machine-civilization turning and destroying and murdering,

then we're not even considered human anymore.

latest entry





















latest entry(old)

today i learned that there's no such thing as angels. i'm not sure what's left now. i don't think i'm okay either. f4

latest entry (old)

fish formula and bio-rings, but they die anyway

in the midnight howl of basement tenement halls adorned with 50 watt bulbs and the smell of sweet ammonia

and homeless people afraid of hospital stays for fear of disulfiram and needles and force-fed Scotch,

smoking their last cigarette butts to stay out of the rain

drinking surgical spirit,

somehow smarter than the college-kids, dry-humping the professor's ego until they find themselves in their assigned cubicle

obsequiously slouching and lobotomized

bisected tongues and unconscious conscientiousness

more fucking flags than convictions

more opinions than pets

unlearned until they can't learn anything from anybody

when you can learn anything from anybody,

the push or scrape argument again

when there might as well be no crack for 700 miles,

or however far until dawn is,

and the kid alseep behind the parking lot dumpster

sheltered under garbage-lid roof

16% battery and no mobile data

but enough heroin in his pocket to get through tomorrow without begging

sleeps soundly through the rain.








day ???? of avoiding being awake as much as possible for the rest of my life


for the first time in a couple of years i'm back to 3dan on tenhou. my old tenhou account that i had since 2015 was disabled due to inactivity back around 2019 or so, and i haven't had a primary account since then, mostly playing a few games on an account before not playing for a while. but since i've been doing nothing but playing mahjong lately, i've finally grinded enough games to reach 3dan, and while i'm not super happy with my general performance looking back at some of the replays, it's a nice feeling to kind of be back to where i left off. here's some pictures.

my deal in rate is way higher than i'd like compared to my win rate, and my hope is that i can do a bit of studying and getting back into the hang of good tile efficiency and defense by watching some lectures and doing some reading. goals for the year i guess.


i have a love-hate relationship with mahjong. it infuriates me, but at the same time, it's the only thing i actually find fun anymore. here's a term for a strategy that i recently discovered that actually surprised me because i had never even conceived such a thing.

反射 Hansha - Reflection

Tsuchida Kōshō defines Hansha as the following:


Hansha is when a player who has decided to only discard safe tiles in response to a riichi suddenly discards a non-suji tile, and at that time, one can suppose that the same player might be holding onto a tile that creates a kabe (wall), and accordingly attempting to read his hand from this behavior.

i think this is why after all these years i still enjoy mahjong so much, as the complexity of the rules gives way to a surprising amount of depth to the game.

also here's a kazoe yakuman i managed to get in a public match on sega MJ today


i refuse to acknowledge how i actually think or feel right now; in the meantime, more poetry i like.

イカロス - 三島由紀夫




かくも絶えざる青の注視を私へ投げ 私をいざなひ心もそらに

もつと高くもつと高く 人間的なものよりもはるか高みへ

たえず私をおびき寄せる? 均衡は厳密に考究され

飛翔は合理的に計算され 何一つ狂ほしいものはない筈なのに

何故かくも昇天の欲望は それ自体が狂気に似てゐるのか?

私を満ち足らはせるものは何一つなく 地上のいかなる新も忽ち倦かれ

より高くより高くより不安定に より太陽の光輝に近くおびき寄せられ

何故その理性の光源は私を灼き 何故その理性の光源は私を滅ぼす?

されば そもそも私は地に属するのか?


かくも急速に私の下降を促し 思考も感情もその暇を与へられず

何故かくもあの柔らかなものうい地は 鉄板の一打で私に応へたのか?

私の柔らかさを思ひ知らせるためにのみ 柔らかな大地は鉄と化したのか?

堕落は飛翔よりもはるかに自然で あの不可解な情熱よりもはるかに自然だと 自然が私に思ひ知らせるために?

空の青は一つの仮想であり すべてははじめから翼の蝋の

つかのまの灼熱の陶酔のために 私の属する地が仕組み

かつは天がひそかにその企図を助け 私に懲罰を下したのか?

私が私といふものを信ぜず あるひは私が私といふものを信じすぎ

自分が何に属するかを性急に知りたがり  あるひはすべてを知つたと傲り

未知へ あるひは既知へ

いづれも一点の青い表象へ 私が飛び翔たうとした罪の懲罰に?

Icarus - Yukio Mishima

From 「Sun and Steel」

Do I, then, belong to the heavens?

Why, if not so, should the heavens

Fix me thus with their ceaseless blue stare,

Luring me on, and my mind, higher

Ever higher, up into the sky,

Drawing me ceaselessly up

To heights far, far above the human?

Why, when balance has been strictly studied

And flight calculated with the best of reason

Till no aberrant element should, by rights, remain-

Why, still, should the lust for ascension

Seem, in itself, so close to madness?

Nothing is that can satify me;

Earthly novelty is too soon dulled;

I am drawn higher and higher, more unstable,

Closer and closer to the sun's effulgence.

Why do these rays of reason destroy me?

Villages below and meandering streams

Grow tolerable as our distance grows.

Why do they plead, approve, lure me

With promise that I may love the human

If only it is seen, thus, from afar-

Although the goal could never have been love,

Nor, had it been, could I ever have

Belonged to the heavens?

I have not envied the bird its freedom

Nor have I longed for the ease of Nature,

Driven by naught save this strange yearning

For the higher, and the closer, to plunge myself

Into the deep sky's blue, so contrary

To all organic joys, so far

From pleasures of superiority

But higher, and higher,

Dazzled, perhaps, by the dizzy incandescence

Of waxen wings.

Or do I then

Belong, after all, to the earth?

Why, if not so, should the earth

Show such swiftness to encompass my fall?

Granting no space to think or feel,

Why did the soft, indolent earth thus

Greet me with the shock of steel plate?

Did the soft earth thus turn to steel

Only to show me my own softness?

That Nature might bring home to me

That to fall, not to fly, is in the order of things,

More natural by far than that improbable passion?

Is the blue of the sky then a dream?

Was it devised by the earth, to which I belonged,

On account of the fleeting, white-hot intoxication

Achieved for a moment by waxen wings?

And did the heavens abet the plan to punish me?

To punish me for not believing in myself

Or for believing too much;

Too earger to know where lay my allegiance

Or vainly assuming that already I knew all;

For wanting to fly off

To the unknown

Or the known:

Both of them a single, blue speck of an idea?


人殺しの酒 - ボオドレール

Read it in English (or French) here!



女房が死んで、俺は自由だ。だから お酒も飮み放題だ。一もんなしで 歸つて來ると、むかしは女房のかみなりが骨身にみたが。王様と同じくらゐに 今は幸福だ。氣は澄んで、大 晴れて・・・

俺が あいつに惚れたのも思へば こんな夏だつた。

身を裂くやうに恐ろしい 喉の渴きが癒るには あいつの墓に溢れるほど なみなみとお酒が入用いりよう。--これは容易な事ではない。

あいつを、實は、井戶の底に 俺は投み、その上へ 井筒になつた側石がはいしを 殘らず落した。--出來れば れてしまひたい。

二人の仲は永久に離れはせぬと 愛の深い誓ひの言葉にかけて、昔 互いに惚れ合つて夢中になつてゐたやうに 仲直りしようと、

俺は、道端みちばたの薄暗がりで 媾曳あひびきを、その、あいつに懇願したのだ。

やつて來た。--阿呆な女だ。俺たちは 誰でも多少は阿呆だが。

隨分 やつれてゐたものの、やつぱりあいつは別嬪べつぴんだつた。俺はといへば惚れ過ぎてゐた。それだからこそ言つたのだ、『死んでしまへ』と。

この 俺の 氣持は 誰にも解るまい。醉ひどれの阿呆の中に 誰一人、その病な夜な夜なに 酒を變じて經帷子きやうかたびらにしようと思つた奴があつたか。

鐡で出來た機械のやうに 不死身であるこの醉漢どもは、夏でも冬でも、一度だつて眞實の戀を知つたことがなかつた、

その黑々とした法の魅力や、激しい不安の惡のやうな行列や、その毒藥の瓶や、淚や、からからと鎖や骸骨の鳴る音を 伴ふ戀を。

--今ここに 俺は自由で孤獨になつた。今夜は 俺は醉いつぶれよう。さうなれば、何の恐れも悔いもなく、俺は 地面に 寢ころぶだらう、

野良犬のやうに 眠るだらう。

砂利だの泥だの積んだ 重い車輪の荷車か、氣狂ひじみた貨物車が、


胴中どうなかを眞二つにき殺すかも知れぬ。だが そんな事、神や惡や聖體の拜領臺と同前で、一向に頓著しない。


been six days since i found out. i thought time passed unbearably slow already before; now every second drags along somehow even more unexpeditiously. i don't have much to say because i'm still processing this. i'll talk about something else.

my copy of Baudelaire's 惡の華Les Fleurs du Mal, translated into the japanese by Suzuki Shintarou, arrived today. it's in good condition despite being printed in '61. some of the text on the pages is visibly worn to a great degree, and there's a lot of black spots on some of the characters presumably from the printing process, but most of it is readable. the whole thing is written in old kana orthography, along with a lot of kyuujitai (the book is littered with 體 instead of 体 for example, or 聲 instead of 声), and frankly it's an absolutely beautiful specimen of a book. when i find the energy to live again i'll probably commit myself to transcribing the full text of the book onto this website. here are some pictures

fun fact, this isn't the version of the book that appears in the manga/anime Aku no Hana. the one that appears in Aku no Hana is a translation by Horiguchi Daigaku. as far as i know, it's written in a more modern style than the Suzuki translation (despite the fact that i do believe it's an older translation. weird how that works. i guess Suzuki really loved his kyuujitai lol)


my ex died. she died in november and i'm just finding out.

i want to kill myself.











猥褻 — 2021/03/06

[19:20]it was a weird time

[19:21]when i was with my ex i was basically hugely flamboyant with how i expressed myself in dressing and shit

[19:21]like literally we shared clothing

[19:21]all of our clothes

[19:21]i mean literally all

[19:22]but it made me happy as fuck because 1) i didnt care what people other than her thought about me



[19:22]i was just extremely comfortable



[19:23]around her



[19:25]im not gonna lie

[19:25]it kind of was deep as fuck


[19:25]i have never had a relationship like that

[19:25]with another human being

[19:25]where we were so comfortable with each other

[19:26]that we literally went to the bathroom together

[19:26]dude no like for fucking real

[19:26]we watched how i met your mother for the first time together

[19:26]and like




[19:27]we were so fucking cringey

[19:27]we had equally cringey names for each other

[19:28]it was us vs the fucking world man

[19:28]that's literally how we got together

[19:28]i knew her for years in HS but

[19:28]one day she went schizo

[19:28]and she got out of the fucking mental hospital

[19:28]and left me a voice message on my phone

[19:29]asking me to save the world with her

[19:29]thats why i cant really take ppl seriously when they say

[19:30]oh you know dude there's a million fish in the sea"""

[19:30]but it's like

[19:30]i got a taste of the perfect life

[19:30]you don't

[19:30]you don't get to give the entirety of your being to a person like that

[19:30]you cant just do that on command

[19:30]i never

[19:31]fell so hard for a person in my fucking life

[19:31]we mutually stumbled into an engagement after only like

[19:31]three weeks of dating

[19:31]it was the most awkward, cringey and cute wholesome fucking conversation

[19:32]i've ever had

[19:32]i literally remember it word for word man


[19:32]its unreal

[19:33]the contrast between who i was with her

[19:34]and who i've become

[19:34]we were so


[19:35]and fucking blinded by each other's light

[19:35]i was convinced of this and i told her

[19:36]"in every lifetime, we end up together"

[19:37]its one of those things that just

[19:37]makes sense to you

[19:37]to meet a person you feel you've known all your life

[19:37]who you've missed dearly all your life

[19:39]the kind of relationship where

[19:39]you watch those sappy romantic movies and


[19:39]because we thought our relationship was more ideal

[19:40]and believed it too

[19:41]the worst is knowing deep inside yourself, that the truth is, the best isn't yet to come, it's already behind you

[19:42]that you know on your deathbed you will still harbor these memories

[19:44]there's a yawning canyon between those days and where i stand now that grows wider every waking second

[19:45]and it's just


[19:46]i want to forget it every day

[19:46]my only solace

[19:46]is when i wake in the night out of another dream of her, or of chasing after drugs and liquor, being homeless and afraid

[19:46]and for the briefest moment

[19:46]i've yet to remember who i am or who i was

[19:47]that is the best part of every day

[19:48]both the english and japanese language lack the intrinsic fucking capacity to describe how dejected, crestfallen and wholly in anguish i am

[19:49]so i shitpost

[19:49]and turn my brain off

[19:49]and hope to God that i dont think on any deeper level than wanting a fucking cigarette

[19:49]because the alternative is just

[19:50]too fucking much





*  *  *  *  *

yashiki takajin's "yappa sukiyanen" is probably the best love ballad of all time. it's really got all the requisite traits, that cheesy mid-80s instrumentation, the simple but hypnotic lyrics, the tension of emotion in his vocals... it's a basic song but for some reason it's so damn inexplicably good.

*  *  *  *  *



..and my sorrow, engendered by the complex flame of my embittered emotions, continues in its acuity with no apparent resolution in sight. Plastered with just a sip of my bottled self-deception, and until I am covered in it and I am become one with it and I am it in itself, because I could not, and seemingly could never, construct myself an escape into the fantasy of daily life. There it all is; the shock-and-awe of it, of loving so madly and being so madly loved, and the unfortunate proof of how tremendously love burdens the soul, juxtaposed with the contradiction of the poison of loneliness and desolate nights at the end of a bottle. The vulnerability of the darkness of hurt we all bear like the cross; the impossibility of a single true embrace. And words that I never knew I meant that slipped out, in haste, and anger, like everything, steeped in self-contempt and irking fucking misery, which only served to amplify how abrasive and raw the words that followed:

"You can't save the world."


And now we stand looking at the world as though it were only in the reflection of a shattered and foggy ash-tray,

and everyone is gone or going.


Too much in my own world, wading through the fog of memory and the nightmares inbetween. Gazing at what I can see of the world through half-wonders, through half-everythings, really. Cloudy night, trying to quit smoking. Watched the street signals just before midnight give way to their rhythmic red blinking. Terribly anxious for some undefined reason, as if sleep wasn't hard enough to get as-is.

I wasn't always so unwell. It's hard to separate the unwellness from my personality at this point. Of all the things I hate about myself, that particular aspect gets under my fucking skin. But hell, what would you do?


Still incompatible with reality. Just more lonely and with even less to say about it. In other news, I finished seventeen non-nights. Unsure in what direction to put forth my effort now...Maybe I'll write something fun this time.

More peace and love,



I had a dream about someone important to me. It was one of those ghastly dreams that blurs the already tenuous lines between reality and fiction; one of those dreams that makes you all too keenly aware of how mentally unwell you are. It wasn't a restful dream. It wasn't a good dream or a bad dream. I woke up steeped in my own sweat and panic. I woke up exhausted beyond belief.

It made me realize just how exhausted I've become; how tired I am of continuing to struggle for basic existence. How tired I am of building armies in my mind, of the proxy wars necessary just to keep what one loves, of deterrence, counter-plotting, of constant self-loathing...

He was right, what terrible fucking uneasiness lies in being loved.

At the least, I've come to somewhat of a breaking point. I'll either figure out what to do, or get so terribly drunk that maybe things will work themselves out.

Peace and love.


I'm starting to think Mainländer was right about everything.


When I was a younger man, about 50,000 cigarettes ago and God knows how many kilograms of heroin ago, an ex-fiancée ago, almost ten years ago.. I had the vague notion of purpose that punctuated my every action. I was going somewhere, even if I didn't know exactly where the trail lead to.

The contrast between the vague-but-certainly-real confidence of then and the aimlessness and idling of the now is baffling.

What on God's green earth ever happened to me?

Then I recall. I played with fire until my mind split irreversibly in twain.




...で、どうしても時の経たないような、そういう大義な日でもある。もちろんそりゃ、仕方なく受け入れた方がいいじゃないかっていう考えがよく分かるんだけれども... どうせ上手く行かないのならホンマ受け入れる必要なんてあるんですかねってこと。間違いなくいつもどおり、物事の必然さに抗いたいという。

コンビニへ行った。好きな煙草売り切れだったからもっと遠くへ行かないと。第二目のコンビニ、到着。ここも売り切れだ。何なんだろうこれ?誰がラッキーストライク買い込んでいるのだろう? 30分後やっと煙草手に入れた。一服喫んだ。喉が渇いたけどもう一回コンビニ入るっては恥ずかしいじゃないかなと思って、喉渇いたまま家へ向かった。







I looked at myself in the mirror today, for a long time, in some kind of semi-psychotic temporary abstinence from my usual alcoholicness. The cliché to say would be that I didn't really recognize myself; I'm opting to say that I do recognize my basic features, the outline that makes me, the face I've seen in half-glances into the mirror..but what alarms me is how much older I look already. The alcohol and drugs have seemingly eliminated some unnameable quality that my face used to hold, call it, a youthfulness, or thickness of the blood or whatever it may be. The glossiness of my eyes only eliminates from their usual shine; my skin has taken on definitive wrinkles, even if they are not so blatantly obvious. I look at the tattoos on my face: I don't entirely remember getting them, but I remember waking up years ago to find them, summarily drinking myself underneath the table so as not to worry about it. I can hardly call it unrecognizable, but it is... concerning, and markedly changed.

Days like this remind me too starkly of the disconnect between my former self and now. I think a lot about my demeanour and my reactions to things, and the changed nature of those too. I think a lot about the people I used to call my friends and family. I think a lot about visiting my friend I used to shoot dope with. He got a blood infection from using dirty needles. They had to amputate his feet. I remember seeing him bedridden, and noticing his legs ending in stumps underneath the blanket where his feet should have began. I remember getting high in the lobby of that hospital afterwards. I don't really remember what I did after that.

It's been almost a year. I think about seeing the body of this kid who died of a brain aneurysm in his sleep. I'd seen bodies before, but I'd never seen that much blood. I remember my homeless friends arguing about what to do with the body, whether to call the police. I remember them arguing about whether it was a good idea or not to let him smoke crack a few hours previously. I remember them blaming eachother for killing him. I remember the couch cushion that sucked up almost all of the blood.

I remember being arrested on a warrant for lodging in public spaces just a few days after that. The cop put on the handcuffs too tight. I remember for months afterwards the numbness of my thumb from the incident. I remember being fingerprinted. I remember the small holding cell with sixteen people and the floor covered with piss. I remember not being able to piss because I was too shy. I remember using a roll of toilet paper as a pillow. I remember the plasticy and dry bread with peanut butter they brought to us at four o' clock in the morning.

I remember sitting under a tree in the summer, laying on a blue tarp, watching a spider and drinking cheap beer. I remember how good that day was. I remember being cognizant of how good I felt at that moment in time, and how depressed I got afterwards when I realized this moment wasn't going to last. I must've watched that spider for hours. He was a big one, impeccably long-legged with some kind of yellowish pattern on his back. I went back there weeks later, but the spider had moved on, it appeared.

I remember when I was really young. I remember my mother, drunk and belligerent, coming home hours past midnight. I remember them fighting. I remember someone drawing a knife. I still don't know who it was. My father told me she had grabbed the knife, and he had managed to pry it from her in the struggle. I don't remember my mother ever commenting about that event, and I never asked.

I think about the causality of these events. I think about how much events make up who I am. I think about drinking. Sometimes, I think about raccoons or butterflies.

I am so tired of thinking, but it constitutes the vast majority of my free time.


I feel most days like I'm standing in another person's shoes; there are people who would love to tell me differently, that in fact, I am living with the consequences of my own reckless and drug-addled life. They're not wrong, but who the hell is right, anyway?

No, if I am being truthful, I feel so divorced from my own life that I don't know how to go about picking up the pieces, nor do I know if it's really worth attempting to do so. Imagine if you woke up one day, burdened with financial and spiritual debts to be paid without any real recollection of the transpiring events that lead to such. It's jarring, to say the absolute least of the matter, and enough to drive almost anyone insane: or enough to drive anyone to drink to cope with the absurdity of it all. I suppose I'm in the latter camp. Cheers.

At the worst intervals, everything might as well corrode into mashed-potatoes and carrots. What I mean by that is that, everything seems to be so heinously contradictory from the outset that it seems clear to me even the forces imposing such absurdity must be at least somewhat self-aware of it, if only a little. But as it were, no-one seems to take notice of this. I am furthered isolated from the world around me by my inherent inability to grasp meaning and importance to trivialities (at least, trivialities in my mind. Perhaps that's part of the issue). It's as though everyone got the memo but I, about how to exist and function in the context of the world and people around us all. If someone did in fact get that memo, would you mind sharing it with me? No such luck, I'm afraid.

I've felt trapped for so long that it's almost starting to scare me how strangely indifferent I've become to the state of my life. God knows there's not enough sleep to go around as it is, let alone enough to actually muster the required energies to fight for myself. I feel anesthetized, habituated to the water rising above my neck, with no urgency to keep myself above it. I suppose this is what happens when your belief that the world owes you not a thing seeps into your being, permeates and festers there, until you believe that you don't owe yourself a thing either. I guess that's just getting used to feeling like you're fucked all the time.

Luckily enough, they bottle courage. At least God or whoever gave us that much.


I think a lot about my past. That is to say, I think a lot about interspersed periods of dark vaccuum and white light that fill up the parts of my memory where my past should by all rights be; and this thinking is not so much reflection than unprovoked and unstoppable fixation on those missing hours. It goes without saying that aimless non-reflection does little if anything at all to bring what one might call some sort of catharsis. I don't know...

There are other times, too, when the clock winds itself back as if possessed, and I find myself for hours reliving seemingly random sequences of events that correspond to what I actually can remember. Sometimes this can be nice, I suppose; at other times, I find myself catatonic, head throbbing, praying for the sleep that never seems to come easily without alcohol or sedatives. Even so, I find it strange myself that, in these instances, I again never seem to truly reflect on what these events mean as for who I am as a person. I've found that, even though I acknowledge my circumstances to be genuinely unfortunate at times, I cannot quite seem to make the motion required to regret or lament the aforementioned circumstances.

Is this, too, another level of dissociation, from my world and myself? Emotions indefinitely interred in winter slumber, and the rational side of my mind overcompensating until even the thought of talking to another human being makes me physically ill?

Were things ever truly easier? It's hard to even say definitively, as I feel an outsider from even my own life experiences at this junction in time. Maybe things were always bad, I start to think. I smoke my last cigar, play with the blueberry flavored missile of tobacco between my lips until the sweet taste of the flavored wrapper goes away. It is good. In the end, without having learned anything of myself or how to continue on from this point, I retire for the night, and squint at the bizarre texture of a wall until that thief called sleep decides to visit me.

"I met a genius on the train


About 6 years old

He sat beside me

And as the train

Ran down along the coast

We came to the ocean

And then he looked at me

And said

It's not pretty

It was the first time I'd



- Charles Bukowski