Lately I have regained some interest in writing. It seems creative energy flows trough all of us, and in times of strong emotion it must be poured out somewhere, in color, in words, in movement, somehow, somewhere, sometimes... it must be out there in the physical world.

I read some poetry by Alejandra Pizarnik, whom I've heard about in social media as an underrated writer. While at first her texts seemed like an obtuse spill of words to my uneducated eyes, eventually they became so deeply visceral to me, that promises coagulated, and my star was strangled, and soon, I was sobbing in the middle of the night. So of course I had words pouring out of me again, that I had to scramble to write down. I hesitate to call this poetry, as I have no clue what that actually is.