Dear Diary

Dear diary,

Do you think it might possibly

Be time, at last,

To stop thinking

And start living?


What became of our friends,

Whom we loved and laughed with?

Some died of drink, some of broken hearts,

Some drowned in puddles, some in seas,

Some went in search of glory

And never returned,

Some stayed at home

And only dreamed,

Some found religion,

Some found God,

Some found nothing

But themselves.


Europe is mythology and killing:

See it in the face

Of every stranger in the street.

The weasel on the inside of my skull

Is digging his claws in.

A sick animal

Without philosophy or direction,

I sweat weird fevers,

Climbing the walls of my mind.

Requiems of snow are falling

On this city,

On this world.