Why’s he always so sorry?
So sorry for his existence?
So sorry for his breath?
So sorry for his space?
So sorry for his energy?
So sorry for his boundary?
His opinion?
His command for attention?
His shadow?
So sorry for being sorry.
So sorry.
…
Not sorry at all.

The world is a game
My life is a show
With more technology, less humanity
The fake becomes real
The real becomes fake
No amount of satire
Can erase this shame

Мне не больно
Со мною вся
Неба полная бирюза,
Клокотания зов ворон,
Трав нескошенных тихий стон.
За спиною судьбы январь,
Красным бархатом киноварь,
И дорога,длинною в день,
К моим мыслям седая тень...

Свои песни тебе пою.
По земле не хожу,парю!

little Magpie, dancing your rooftop
waltz. your wingtips catch my eye

,into dizzy love, & i see one
thousand two of a kinds.