The air was cold and thick. A typical Dickensian end of afternoon on the banks of the Thames, a forewarning of the harsh winter to come. Many people were still passing by, dancing through the bridges, twisting through the trees, toward the closest tube station, or the warmest cafe.

I was part of that choregraphy too, moving smoothly through the crow until an empty bench sucks me out of it. The instant I sat on the wet board, I disappeared. There without being there, bundled up in my numerous layers of wool, criss-crossing on my chest and swirling around my neck.

And all I could think of was all those persons who were passing through this patch of pavement, through this life that was mine and the diversity of lives humans lead on this planet. All those persons I got to meet and speak with or stalk through miles of cables and layers of clouds.

The crazy-minded and his improbable lover. A mere fluke and there they are, still  on the pictures, the frozen  000s and  1111s allowing a shard from a forgotten past to re-surface, brand as new on the young faces, with a scent of old spices, dust and candy floss.

The impossibly beautiful regularly impaired. Holed up in the centre of the world and still more connected to nature that I would ever be.

The ninja-scribbler, who knows how to wield a nice hat but not a pair of socks

The perfect son-in-law who does not seem to find his way to the altar despite the odds.

The lost Yasmina princess and her 1001-nights pitch black curls walking aimlessly waiting for the moment her life will start.

The peaceful warrior, training for a fight that may very well never come, through the green grass and the white snow,indefinitely cutting through the wind.

The musician with bare feet and a huge smile, who loves women but is only in love with his guitar. And in a corner, almost invisible, the quiet one, almost always mistaken for a shy one but only waiting for his turn to shine too.

The adorable grandma who’s now wearing my punk leather wristband.

Slowly but surely, the childish sounding circling song I am listening to guide the threads of my thoughts into a tapestry of the old ages. It’s a never ending merry go round of faces and names, rolling of the tongue and twirling in my heart, where everyone ends up as depicted as a fairytale hero.

Who would have thought that planting trees in volcanic soil could be a job, or that a hardcore metal singer would turn out to be an expert in literature?

So many paths have been revealed to making about them that makes me dizzy. But the absurdity and the nonsense of the situation are more than welcome. There are so many ways that my only worry now is that I will never get to know them all.

As the rain starts to fall down, I gather my bag and my memories, trying not to leave any behind, and I join the dance once again, zigzagging through the dog leashes and the babies buggies, avoiding pigeons and street gamblers to slip back onto the tracks of real life




Impeccable posture and perfect tux, he arrives. Wider than life, the first thought striking your brain is how much broader his shoulders are. The muscles are much more defined than expected. Then, he has always demonstrated an almost scaringly mechanical control of all of his 700 muscles.

A subtle shift of his wrist, and it begins.

His commanding presence imposes itself on your spinning thoughts. The gracious fingers are so far away, at the opposite end of the stage. However, the feeling of them reaching inside your brain is very much real. There it is, the tender touch gathering all the loose threads of thoughts, carefully wrapping them around his dexterous fingers and strong wrists.

Only when the meticulous harvest of your thoughts is completed, will he start fiddling with your emotions, relentless as the tide, accurate as a surgeon. Suddenly, you know what it feels like to be a Stradivarius in the hands of a prodigy.

The seemingly effortless way with which he conjures rough diamonds from the cliffs of your bottom eyelids is both enthralling and maddening. The unexpected beauty of his face contorting itself is overwhelming. It flicks through a myriad of expressions in the span of a heartbeat. His intense gaze betrays the volcano burning inside. The restrained manners ingrained through the years barely conceal the storm brewing inside.

His voice wraps itself around you, cloaking you from the absurd reality of the world, sometimes soothingly, sometimes oppressively. It carries a thousand souls, a thousand minds, all alike, all desperately human and yet each unique.

The words conveyed are precious. They are essential, they are paramount to the performance, carefully chosen, wielded and delivered, years of practice culminating in a flawless enunciation. Yet, they are meaningless. Superfluous. Unneeded. Everything is already etched in the lines of his face, in the lines of his limbs, in the lines of his moves.

The similarities in between each performance are glaringly obvious, standing proudly at the forefront of the act. It is after all the same face, same eyes same nose same lips same chin same arms same fingers, same body. The variations are subtle, barely noticeable by the conscious eye. Yet, they make all the difference. No matter how many times you both end up in an identical configuration, him flying above on stage and you still in your chair, it will never be the same.

The sad part is that he will never know how much all this means.

And that is precisely the magic of it.

On The Brink

The end is nearing
And i’m standing on the brink

A step forward
And i’ll be done

A step backward
And i’ll be done… for

The end is closing in
And i’m standing on the brink

It beats

It beats

Relentless, Restless

It beats

It beats


I can feel it

Under every inch of my skin

And I’m getting curious about it

Lurking somewhere under my chin


It beats

Breathless, Hopeless

It beats

It beats


I wish I could feel it

Beating against my fingertips

I wish I could see it

Bleeding free from my ribs


That’s the scariest certainty I ever had

My own personal clock, ticking away my time

What would happen if suddenly it stopped?

That possibility truly fascinates me

Keeping the wonderment alive in every beat


I want to dig it

Tearing it outside, just for my curious eyes

I want to pet it

Stroking lightly the pulsing curves


It beats

Brainless, Aimless

It beats

It beats


I can only imagine it

And hope very hard

Of never actually seeing it

Sealing away the end of my time.


It beats

Mindless, Thoughtless

It beats

It beats






Don’t know what goddess
Forgot me in that mess
Or which fate’s dress
I should tug on.
Maybe it’s Kharma’ s toga
That would get me out of this drama
Or should I pray Buddha
To stop sinking down?
Someone up there
Misplaced me somewhere
That’s not fair,
But they’re already gone.
My place is not here
But it’s not there either
Am I stuck forever
In this muddy brown?
Lost, not really
Fallen, surely
Misplaced, more accurately
I’ve just been forgotten.

It’s About

It’s about Rambling.

down the stairs

of random themes
It’s about a stare
met in the tube,
making me feel beautiful
It’s about the rain
melting down the bricks onto the pavement
Or so it seems
It’s about a good advice
coming from a stranger
at the right time
It’s about a sad love story
tearing me apart
Just for the hell of it
It’s about a penny
found on the ground
that no one else noticed
It’s about candies
gulfed down one after the other
just to keep the rush going on a little more
It’s about a yellow room
And how new beddings
make it feel like home
It’s about missing somefriends real’ much
and realizing that some others
are not as missed as I thought they would
It’s about moving
in all different directions at the same time
until my head gets dizzy
It’s about meeting new people
once, and twice and then
keep your mind opened all the time
It’s about love words
sounding fake but that
My lonely heart followed anyway
it s about growing up
and fighting to stay a kid
not that much in fact, cause it ‘s natural to me
It’s about an old teenage perfume
reminding my soul of its first love
and sending the jolts in my body , as it used to, long before
It’s about small trinkets
luckily found around the world
and reunited, on my wrist
It’s about a tie dye scarf
A gift from someone so far
who made a stranger close, for a very short time
It’s about far away friends
that always find time
to spare a word, a joke or a hug thru magic waves
It s about so many things
And yet, so few
are really important
In the end,
True to be true,
i sincerely think
It s all about music
cause if it were not
what else could it be about?


Being a virgin does not make you innocent
It makes you nothing more than an ignorant.
Many times I fell head over heels
Again and again breaking the seals

And each time it’s a purer me
That ends up in your arms Sweetie.
Time goes by stealing the silly dreams
The wishful illusions of perfect seams

I’ll take the sweat, and the beer breath
Over the roses and the even after death
I’ll go for the scruffy mornings
Over the smooth and clean evenings

No matter what they say about it
Some are born with old souls and wise wits
Time flows differently for each
Seems like mine fights again aging fiercely

Someday day we might be reunited Darling
You’ll grab your guitar and sing to me
The years that passed on while
We tried to live our dreams and become wise

Can already tell you one thing, Honey
You probably don’t think you’ve still got it
And It might sound strange
But I’m in love with your innocence