Sunday, 3 December 2017






















"I can
be
More mysterious,
If you would like.
I am
generally speaking
Interested in watching you meet me
And watching me meet you.
We could pretend each to be the skilled audience of the other.
The dream last night was from my time hitchhiking through Greece - I was in a car of Russian expats (like the old man who saved me when my foot was bleeding on the highway from Marseille, who attacked me, whom I pacified with Russian, with whom I drank water and ate macaroons and danced to Cossack battle music while his neighbours tried to sleep). One of them was a beautiful woman, younger than me, with scars across her jaw. I wanted to be close to her, and find a way to let her close to me... but all I could think of was the sea, and the sound it made; so I didn't notice when we got off of my course, when we traveled past beaches I couldn't safely sleep on.
The dream ended later, while she and I watched two very voluptuous, large women wrestling on a Sunday urban driveway. One was sort of unhealthy and ungraceful. The other was strong and vital and gorgeous. Her breasts fell out of her shirt and I woke up.
Dreams, you know?
Tell me
about part of one of your dreams
mysteriously and strictly according to form.
Insinuate a desire to meet,
If it suits your plans.
Thinking of throwing coins into old wells.
Thinking of silence as delicate, and absence as easily mistaken for silence."

(Hashtag: Art of Talking to Strangers)
















































































































Saturday, 2 December 2017

Thursday, 30 November 2017


























"EVERYTHING BEFORE NOW IS A STORY," HE SAYS. 
"EVERYTHING AFTER NOW IS A STORY. THESE ARE THE GREATEST MOMENTS OF OUR LIVES & YOU'RE MISSING THEM."


































Saturday, 25 November 2017





































It's been a red day. Do you know what I mean by that, D? Days like today are bitter sweet. I dreamt about her last night, it's been over year since the last. Six or seven years since I last saw her, eight or nine since the day we first met. Her gaze hit the side of my face, it was almost violent. Our eyes met and neither of us looked away, despite the societal cues, despite subconscious timidness. Her smile was soft spoken, if a smile can be described as such, a thin veil attempting to hide her primal undertones. I was her prey, so she thought. But love knows no apex predator, the hunter and the hunted, one begins where one ends, a snake eating its own tail, you know what they call that D? Ouroboros.
My dream lingers with me through out the day. A reddish tint, the walls are practically wet. Why red, red for remembrance? Red for regret? Red for remorse? (Is alliteration cheap?) Probably just a brain tumor. Later that day she found me through a mutual friend, a co worker, creeping her prey. I invited her over to my place, and I kept thinking 'this is too easy'. A classic beauty, half Italian (the good half) and half Portuguese. Big doe eyes, cheek bones carved out of marble, such peaks and valleys. Her lips.. her hair.. every thing was right, every strand was where it was supposed to be, her body was the definition of home - comfortable, inviting, warm. A feast for my eyes. Every synapse, every electrical exchange, charged. I kissed her that night. We laid in my bed and talked for hours, and hours. Coiled around each other, you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. "I can listen to you talk all night". We didn't sleep at all. We did a lot of things that night, but we didn't sleep. I wanted to be all the levers she'd ever pull, all the itches she would ever scratch, all the mistakes she would always repeat.
The predator does not let its guard down when its prey is killed. They do not get to enjoy their meal, they are always aware, alert. What's the difference between prey an an unaware predator? One ends where one begins, a snake eating its own tail, do you know what they call that D? She tried to enjoy her meal. I lulled her into a state of oblivion. You know when a heart skips a beat... if you don't catch up to it fast enough it may be too late. When I caught up to mine she had already crossed her T's and dotted her I's. She needed to move on. I knew she didn't want to, I thought I could string together the right words, feign an laceration - give her a taste of blood, push the right buttons... she was braver than I thought.
Her name still makes my blood flow just a bit faster. She won't be there by my death bed, but she'll still be in my head. I wonder if she ever dreams about me? I hope not, nobody deserves that. But I've always been a victim of my past, a prisoner to nostalgia. Red for rapture, red for redeemed, red for rebirth (alliteration is definitely cheap). Why does it always feel like a tint of red? Always red.
(Hashtag: The Art of Talking to Strangers)
(bruna.diletta@gmail.com)



























































































YOU ARE WHAT EXISTS BEFORE ALL THE STORIES. 











































































Wednesday, 22 November 2017






















FEEL LIKE
HUGS & KISSES
WITH YOU











& A BLINDFOLD.




















































Him@gmail.com
To:bruna.diletta@gmail.com
Subject:
___________________________________________________________________________ 


I wonder about the thoughts you have when you are not prompted to have them

does this sound creepy?....not meant to

find myself thinking...again....

and you came to mind

I search for peace....but I know not her face......

.....his face?






bruna.diletta@gmail.com
To: Him@gmail.com
Subject:
 ______________________________________________________________________________


Your face?

My Unprompted Thoughts

Probably aren't worth paying attention to
As they are a measly 20 something years of age
(grapes in a fine wine cycle (fingers crossed))
 
I wonder the correlation between unprompted thoughts
& peace of mind
 





Him@gmail.com
To: bruna.diletta@gmail.com
Subject:
_________________________________________________________________________




Pffft. 
Waste of Time. 



























































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