And the end is a palm,
a hand from a blurry distance,
has the figure of a leaf.

Just as a leaf falls down in autum,
from a tree,
want to find rhythm,
Melody.
Till the fall of forgetfulness,
Till the last moment of soft landing,
where all teardrops hide,
wish to be a little girl with untamed steps,
dancing gracefully with little lips opened a bit,
hands open both sides, wide, huge,
holding tears, tearing down wrongdoings,
wish to be a noble rebel in harmony,
Till the end.

And the end is a palm,
a hand from a blurry distance,
has the figure of a leaf.

Pro createe ion oft dis ist dis;
An ger y man is thain, i wory, when gence
Act ion un nee aces sory if thou ist
Un acer stain.
Thee third mine whichst as ter x ist tan full.
As ter xes tan, the nap tan, whichst thain tan,
with thou twin foam, o rat her fond tan to thee; null tao, walkst thou…
Batt le im sit ellas, sat ellites, lone art sys team writcribt thain invisage.
Ma body be comma cough fin; buff in.
Fallse thou art neither nord as art,
nord plea sured ear thee lay the lights.

Whilst waiten thou to com be nee faren yets nearer,
Thou sands tim es re dree amen thee fin null alles cenen.
Mul tip lay da ima ge oft en da grim me visage
that thou de gran disied im me so ull.
M in i thee! M ma tured pro even, thee id real.
Dres den, un dres den: ma khen whas thee wishst, a we illst,
Nee di lemma.

Justest de signed us de sired to k now da ist worthen,
Que es stain to da lust east station, aa slav ec ions.
Strike dim wast so sits wrong, me wast frozen y be linden.
Dis, dis, dis rest pact, dis wrecked pact
Sand out er slam men fort y ver.
Fairy nunes dis, dis ceased, wingst oft me angelo bro keen
Thus da dis winden taketh as teria, as terra exeria,
two be righten east apara dis.

For ture ast thain vul ture, fed mine liv err.
Pro eject ion two be core, dis fore.
Dis ere for ere, aw aken achen festen, un be linden.

Yell:dis.

Are you punk?
Call me sometime if you are.
Read normal, can you?
One hundred percent for sure,
When the format viewed as the tools are concerned,
Sort of new times and almost Roman it was,
Twelve generally it likes,
Bold maybe, italic rarely but very scarcely underlined, I assume.
Centered, aligned right or left, does not contribute to the meaning as well as the essence.
Oh what can I say, window it is to the word if not to the world.
File I lost yesterday, contained drawings of mine,
Bad luck I sensed, but if I were to insert something on what I already have, I would say: word is good, word is lovely.
Softly micro chasms I fall into.
Why?
Generation of mine demanded most possibly, but don’t ctrl- alt- del me, ok?
It is a natural selection, very automatically.
I searched my favorites, and I end up with excel worksheet,
I am a sheep baby, say it: what can I do, but don’t esc.
Anyway, fortunately table helps to save my typing.
Undo typing please, the editor god named Edit, yes I am talking to you.
I want to type a question for help,
I have problems with spacing lines and filling the lines with words.
Hare hare undo, hare hare save as.
Open your most secret file, pour favore!
And let me count the words,
You say no…
How dare you, you little nasty task manager fellow.
End everything, end tasks and end our relationship.
I tell you: you are very soft and micro for me now.
Ciao

Mild tones eye searched through the mixture of many presences, no mild tones was there to relieve the seeker. The sea was red, when closely viewed the sea was on fire, flames, flames- ships were there on the sea- fire would approach, ships should be warned immediately, shouted at the fishermen, voice can not be heard by them, shouted louder with all the strength, no they didn’t hear, fire fire fire fire fire approaching, approaching to the ships, they will burn, they will die, must do something, must do something, screamed, screamed with all she has, they didn’t hear her, they didn’t hear her, they didn’t hear her. Wild tones approached to the ships, red, yellow, orange, black smoke, smoke like an enormous hand grabbed the sky. She looked at the huge hand and climbed on it, when she came to the dark palm: she made the hand gather the ships to a safe place. People in the ships were safe.

She turned her eyes back to the table she was sitting and back to the person she was talking with. The person wanted to know what is going on. She couldn’t answer for a while and directed her attention to the other people passing near by the table.

Words words words, couldn’t arrive to the tongue. Silent silent woman, curious curious man in a park. Origin of thoughts scanned but more confusing ideas emerged, when he curiously curiously looked at her, at the same time he too searched her origins through her eyes, she knowingly made a gesture with her lips- indicating the unpleasant condition. The grass, grew grew, under their feet and covered their feet. That bank was their place until the grass decides to let them go. The grass altering above above, knees gone, the grass grass, up up to the chests, the grass grass- both under the grass grass. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see, only thing she thought: this will pass, this will pass…

On the table and the person was the attention, he was waiting for an answer- waited waited- then he again asked: ‘what is going on?’ She couldn’t answer. She felt somehow good. He was there.

Three cigarettes, and a beer, and a dreadfully long way: to go to sleep. Sleep not easy. Without slipping away for sleeping, I find stones in my hands. Stones many, stones too many. Trying to hold, I am trying, stones but they slip away, I am trying to cling on to one or two, I can’t sleep away. I achieve nothing. Face to face with nothing. No stone in my hand. I forget about stones- I find stones in my hand. In between pain and pleasure there is me, sometimes with stones, sometimes without. Possibility of fullness equals to possibility of nothingness. I watch me,- I seek my animalistic being to be real. To build on I must go to the beginning. Not to my beginning but to the beginning of being. Pure animal or stone, no images attached, not living ready made life, ancient me- before me, before everybody. No history, no mythology, no pictograms, nothing, no images of thought…I mustn’t feel- it would only be an articulation. I must not think now- it would only be destruction for what I have. I must not associate- it would only give what I already have. I must love what I do not know. I must transcend by clinging on to nothing. What do I have now to say myself- what is my position and how my posture is related to the history of beings. I can not be pure because I know. One cigarette, and a half beer, and a dreadfully long way: to stop.

I am always confused, and rarely true.

Ucgen cizdi, suyundan bir yudum aldi, daire cizdi sonra. Ucgen ile dairenin arasina bir kucuk kiz cizdi. Bu benim dedi, yanina bir kucuk erkek cizdi. Bu da sensin dedi, suyundan bir yudum daha aldi. Kagida bakti, bizim hayatimizda hareket eksik degil mi? dedi ve ucgen ve daire arasindaki kucuklerin yanina iki kedi cizdi. Daire bizim dunyamiz, ucgende evimiz dedi. Fircasini aldi, boyali uzun kahverengi sacini kulaginin arkasina atti. Fircasini suya batidi, sonra yesile. Kiz ve erkegin saclari yesil oldu. Firca once suya sonra maviye batti, kizin etegi mavi bir de kedilerden biri mavi oldu. Firca once suya sonra kirmiza batti, erkegin gomlegi kirmizi oldu. Once su sonra mor, kizin bluzu mor oldu bir de kedilerin biri mor oldu. Su, ardindan gri ve erkegin pantalonu gri oldu. Yuzleri beyaz, gozleri kahverengi, dudaklari pembe oldu. Uzaktan yaptigina bakti, yaklasti kagida dokundu. Fircasini tekrar eline aldi, arkasini isirdi. Fircasi dis izi oldu. Butun suyu kagida doktu, iste sonumuz dedi. Kagitta hersey birbirine karisti, birbirine akan bircok renk olustu.

It is both: I want to be with someone and talk and want to be alone and silent. It is both I want to go out and laugh, if possible with friendly companies, and I want to stay at home to get drown in my thoughts in a depressed mood. It is being both- I am weary- and sort of dizzy. Not making a decision is the least desirable state of being and breathing in a room full of silent audience. Mirror, for example, never shows me my true desire when I am aware that I am trying to trace in it. My table and chair are not very friendly to me today. I sat and tried to write but it made me get up in fifteen seconds. My bed throws me out, I am unwelcome there. My shoes did not let my feet in. The doors to outside locked themselves- not to let me out. The windows were seeming normal – like windows, but when I got closer they are darkened. They didn’t let me see outside. The carpet wrapped itself and bookshelf turned its back to me. No dial tone on the phone. Disconnected from internet. My eyes are closed, I tried to open, couldn’t.

Kendine en cok uzaklasabildigin ani en gercek anin olarak dusluyorsun. Baska anlam patikalarindan kendini tanimlamak senin yaptigin. Kendi anilarin sana ait degil, hic birinde yuzun yok. Anilarin demek baska suratlar demek. Su an da baskalarinin bakisiyla hareketlerini saliselerin icinde duzenli ve olmasi gereken ritimde kurguluyorsun. Zihin buna programli. Bunun icinde disariyi goruntuleme cabasini gosterme istegin senin sorunsalinin ozu. Sana gore uzagi ve basiti. Baskalarina gore yakini ve karmasigi.

Poetic journey is possible through the symbols in the books. The garden is the miniature model of the universe and it consists of texts. Whole universe is a text and in it we have our own narratives; that is, subtexts. Our context is history because it is the record of collected subtexts to enable humanity to share a common and objective text. But the fallacy of humanity is; no text can be objective. Therefore, we have many reflections of the same sign in each different narrative. Meaning always changes in relation to the signifier. This means, everything is relative and the signified is constantly changing according to the signifier. When a hero moves through the possible outcomes of his own narrative, meaning changes along with the symbol and ultimately time. In this ever changing time and roles there can not be poetic justice or predetermined theories because all possible outcomes would mean the ending of collectively conditioned beliefs.

I feel numb. No response to a subject or object. Silence.

happiness and loneliless perfectly fits together. Of course, accompanied by some wine, music,then dance, later books, and drawings.