Slow down, you crazy child
The first time I arrived in Vienna, I was eight, ginger, and unimpressed. It was March, and I’d just been uprooted for the first (but certainly not the last) time. My father’s previous employment had meant that I’d spent the first eight years of my life in one house in Brussels. It never reall
Futile Reflections
“If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.” Ideas are futile unless articulated. Ideas are like water, with a transparent nothingness that only solidifies after finding form in the contours of words. But if id
Collage, your pieces do not quite Fit
You, rehearsed cynic at 18, lamented about modern poetry. ‘Not everything is like something else.’ No, but too naive to omit The unbearable likeness of your being. A facsimile of a facsimile, A patchwork hand-sewn man with hidden seams, An ego built on historicity and a hai