Status Updates From Båten om kvelden

a set of vignettes- most quite extraordinary. not really my favorite format though, i prefer a solid structure not shards of brilliance

Memories fly in frightened flocks.

The things one says usually seem to be left lying about on the floor like a pair of lop-sided shoes—while the things one wanted to say feel like birds in flight.
To keep silent about matters of importance is not just modesty. One's wretched tongue is wooden. Small matters are chattered about, blurted out. One keeps silent about the rest until it is perhaps forgotten and lying in various graves.

Words can turn into dark chasms unbridgeable for a whole lifetime. We know very little about the power and the destructiveness of words.

A fresh series of unrelated pictures. It seems as if channels of light are passing through him, regardless of the late evening and the twilight. Curious channels of light. He cannot link them with anything. Impossible to understand when you are dead almost all over.

Leaning out over the water and the mirrors.
They twinkle and bewitch.
Be drawn towards the slime? Don't think. Don't think. Climb away from the slime? Don't think. The slime was imagination? Don't think. Nobody know what flatters and bewitches.

It feels as if there is black earth with icy snow patches inside oneself on a morning like this. That is why one goes out wandering.
It feels like that when something is wrong. Nothing you can point to, but wrong all the same.
Lurch out of a house. Lurch your way out to a marsh.
I am too young.
Everything is so marvellously wrong. It's so horribly exciting.