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| there is nothing when everyone is moving. |
| everything is there when everyone is still. |
| boxes boxes all in boxes cramped with locks the timber knocks your body rocks your head between your knees your hands flexed back behind your back the timber splinters across your fingers the blood bleeds from your grazed knees the air chokes start to cough no one cares when you're in a box |
| a mind that won't stop thinking a heart that can't stop hurting a heart that can't stop pumping a heart that can't stop loving veins that can't stop bleeding world that can't stop turning clocks that can't stop ticking can't stop breathing can't stop dreaming can't stop living can't stop anything |
| shuffling down the quiet grove traffic islands and the pretty street signs crinkled number plates don't go out too late the streets and roads they're oh so cold the highways, freeways and byways shout there is no fucking way out red, green, yellow, blue they keep the junkies away from you fluorescent whores with chemical pores 5 year olds ruminating locked away masturbating the rubble by the sidewalk the dirty taxi that you caught stay inside don't get sick 33% of the air is toxic outside the grove, what stunning beauty 3 and a half minutes inside the city |
| Dear Sir/Madam, I am writing to inform you of some important news. I have been thinking about our relationship over the past few days and have reached some solid conclusions. Over the past few years, we have become very close. Transforming from simple aquaintences to the very best of friends. I have enjoyed a lot of the time we have spent together and I believe I have learnt a lot from our experiences. However, the past few months have been difficult for me. I no longer have anything of importance to tell you. The closer I have become to you, the further I actually feel from you. The more I see you, the less I understand you. Our once comfortable silences have become awkward. As is often the case with long-term social interaction, I believe our partnership has suffered from over exposure. I have personally invested a lot of time into our companionship and now feel as if i am not profiting from it. Hence, I have decided to terminate my relationship with you. Enclosed is a small cheque as a token of my appreciation for the friendship you have given me. We apologise for any inconvenience. Yours truly, Quang Dinh |
| there are four people in the room including me there is one that does not speak that is me one that finds it hard to breathe that is me one that feels absolutely no need to contribute anything to the conversation with an infinite amount of patience that is me to my left, a man, polite, healthy with large fingers to my right, a woman, old, warm, crooked, peaceful straight in front, a little child who cries and cries and asks for his mother me, i don't even bother there is too much to consider now a considerable amount to balance the precision required is almost impossible to attain balancing differing opinions and finding the happy medium the perfection needed to satisfy all in the room looking down at the creases in my fingers the little bits of dirt beneath my nails i formulate the thing i am going to say but before i know it the night has come from the day there is no one left in the room vacant chairs, a dim light, a collection of vague shadows and here i am left alone to talk to myself |
| in between the pines and willows in between the sky and land in between all extremes there is a house that runs on water from the clouds and the surrounding forest of sounds at night it disappears and out comes a boy he runs and runs to the edge of his existence to see the sun rise across the hill but he has to be back soon to chop the wood and feed his dying father yet he runs and runs till he sees the sun specks of light glimmer against his fragile eyes and the brightnessburns through the black spots he sees and all the sadness in his life and for the first time all he sees is clear he turns and runs back to his house the pines and willows speeding by the sounds mix into his thoughts the wind passes through his small fingers his arms pound up and down his head spins all around and he arrives home he runs through the front door still wearing his shoes up the stairs up, up, up and he sees his father lying on the bed his head tucked beneath the sheets the boy peels back the covers large wrinkled hands beneath a heavy head that sleeps and sleeps forever |