Mike Ennenbach has nominated me for the Versatile Blogger award. Thank you so so much Mike. I bet most people have read his blog ad know how incredible he is but here’s a link to his blog nonetheless –

According to the rules I’m supposed to tell 7 things about me, consequently, here goes:

  1. My favorite countries are Azerbaijan, Cambodia, Mexico and Portugal. Random choices, but I like them.
  2. I love swimming, driving and most things that involve moving.
  3. Samuel Beckett, Raymond Carver, Charles Bukowski
    and David Foster Wallace are my all time favorite writers. While my favorite artist is Edvard Munch and Gustav Klimt.
  4. Medical terms excite me. I love learning them and I want nothing more than to be a doctor a few years down the line.
  5. My favorite musicians are Lana Del Rey, The Doors, early records of Coldplay, and I love Nirvana.
  6. I keep list of favorite things, I have a list of favorite words, situations, characters, so on and so forth.
  7. I don’t support religion or necessarily beleive that God is the ultimate fixer. I think humans are the most important everything. There’s 7 billion of us and I see no point in not knowing as many as you can.

Blogs I nominate:

I may have forgotten a lot of people. I probably did. Sorry…

Beckett in the Flicker of a Crying Cigarette

I quit…Up in flames…I’m gone, I’m done, I’m enough…

I know things here and now that I never suspected yesterday. Another mystery stacks oddly on my head and I grieve the sunrise as I wake up to the flame dragging and winding vividly across the sky. I can’t envision a design for days, not a single one that can recognize my weariness of words and my tiredness towards time. All my dreams are fleeting across this bay, and I’ve done wrong, din wrong, and no thoughts can guide me to episodes where I was seasoned to handle the difficulty of each eventful series.

I will have hospital accounts and motorcycle diaries to walk me past the pink hemispheric dusk, and a chalky channel of proper strangers to swerve me to a place soaring higher. I will keep snapshots of my sweat and all my ravings in the dim dark. What can I do? Behold and await an amber horizon? No, I don’t have the keys for the passage through the present. There’s no tonic for nostalgia, there’s no sole liberation for memory. I will have to cope; Deal with abhorrent unoriginality and an abhorrent eternity scientifically.

Nighttime is unraveling and I am cradling in my crib, fondling my hopes. I can’t always be savoring my moments, believe me. Nighttime is unraveling and I am trapped in my truth. You catch your life and you pay the price. All the rescuing is turning me to pieces that tingle, resonances told through talking mouths, not of my own – I’ve lost myself and I lost. I keep I keep I keep. I keep losing people. Nighttime is unraveling. The red foxes are sleeping, and the air is squalling in the midmost selections of places, I’m on the balcony humming the songs underneath the bitterness to lull me to burgundy pastures. I’m going astray, gone.

There’s not enough time to live forever. And on my best days, I do want to live forever and taste the sparkling drops of purity. Sometimes I make a good man and its a beautiful day. I’ll look for those days, I’ll find a way to look for those days.

I’m stopping before the finish line. Thank all the fountains, lucky stars, cohorts.


Stretched across the seascape, a faint smell of mystery.

I was home during an afternoon of blinding rain, the rooms cluttered with sprinkles of croutons, anthologies of despondence wed novels, and the synthetic mist of French perfume. I had saturated my Pepsi with apricot juice. Everything seemed to be under the spell of a forgiving age. The voices of multiple women singing falsettos beyond the television’s screen were almost intoxicating to hear on that dreamy trip to a content Saturday afternoon. The consequence of a late morning had led me to wake up to a burst of sunshine that was disconnected in totality, it was cut by the grid films, yet it softened the noise of a grungy past. I sat looking away from the window, to keep my sight away from the confusingly quick rain.

O arrive On the edge of tomorrow and fly Onward the dawning tears.

“How many seasons do I have to get through these days” asked the old man who embodied my imagination, maybe it was a recurrence from something in a time far forgotten. My memory had encouraged movement in all optimistic and pessimistic ways, all objective and subjective manners. The shores and coasts all bound in the garland of my cartoon recalls made me even gladder. The lush light, the flushed faces, all that was a celebration of symptomatic heartbeats felt closer than the bed on which I lay laughing. I was laughing at a trick joke, an easy one to laugh at, made at the expense of acquaintances. There’s only so many fixes, only so much better and shades of blue to make me rest and head a colored psyche.

I can’t breakthrough this world, bound in a daisy-chain and I’ll stay happily.

But it’s in the evening that something’s to happen, to me. All the sheer shrillness has subsided, minimized by the tarnished glasses unto its havocked images. Notwithstanding the magnified revulsion that uncertainty holds, I can just dream all that needs to be cycled through in times to come. I don’t have a doubt in my mind, this first thought is mine from words and for all their truth. I’m moved, for that is what I breathe to gaze upon, in many ways, and with little prospect of benefits that might follow. So I will maneuver my thoughts to speech, open my mouth and expect to hear them out loud. The past asks for a long farewell, and I shall always try to be eager in fulfilling its wishes. As to say what might have been, I have no idea, except that it must have been during another hour on another day when I instead bought myself to not accomplish that particular teaching. But I do recognize that all that remains to me is a vision of a burning eye glaring out of its socket under a testing purpose to see whether I push it, or it pulls me-whether I have the courage to debate or am just a blow without brains.