September 1. My Olive tree nights.

And thus september begins on a Greek island. No stories are created here, it is only to forget and to leave behind why I am here. Successfully. A new fresh injection of lonelyness from an almost clean syringe nothing to worry about and absorbed swiftly by my warm blood. Does not our goals appear so much clearer when we realize how unique and unsupported we are in achieving it? Yes, it helps, my goal appears clearer and without distraction. The columns of cold air that stand around it are not polluted by warm whispering voices from human mouths trying to take it back into their order. Yet I don’t want to discomfort them.

The internet doesn’t work here. What is this communication thing anyway. Why not just produce dead letters and laugh about it? An attire of dead letters woven around our shivering bodies. We do away with praise and prices, we do away with all that once could have been important for us, and here we stand, merrily disattached to what our tradition calls the ego and its achievements, here we stand smiling a smile that make so many aggressive and comforts so few, but we have our fans. It’s always about the letter and its power to convey a meaning that doesn’t wear out so quickly. A return to the ballad, might the knower say, a return to the voice of anonymity attempted but never to be achieved. I want to sing a ballad to mankind from a perspective merrily disattached and I want the right people around me. O grey flower of blatant arrogance, it is alone that you will end.

I walk the road up the hills and sleep under an olive tree, awaiting the divine sunrise over the Aegean bay of Alonissos. It’s a good night and the air is fresh, how dearly fresh and pure.