For the restless, not for the peaceful sleeping

2.30 a.m., loong sighs. sleep that refuses to visit, blood in my veins that runs very slow and a bit of jazz makes me want to return to this space.
Trumpet.
Piece of my heart, I've been missing you. I thought I was coping just fine, that I was the stronger one. But I've been staying away from home longer. A brighlty lit room without the life of you is such a mockery.
I think we gotta go back to the beginning...
I've been feministing a lot during the past week. Its "the flavour of the season". A conference on trade and gender, a film festival at the school of arts and aesthetics, a completely unnecessary lashing out at a very close friend. Images take their turns in blurs:
1. a South African participant with a resplendent head scarf and a baby strapped to her body. Provocative statements that grow louder with the baby's cries.
2. a little Fench artichoke faced gypsy worried about a hurt fool.
3. a confused unshaven face that nods as i make accusations, already making me feel guilty about my wrong choice of subject.
4. dark branches that cover a dazzling canopy as S tries to reiterate that turbulence that comes with love is better than the peace that comes with the lack of it.
You know it just makes you think
In this orange lit cafe, she stares at his milky white fingers which furiously try to strum out the right tunes to the songs they sing out loud. she is thankful for the sense of disconnectedness between them, the performer ridiculously high on coffee and herself, trying to emerge from the trance of the gaze of drunken eyes that rested themselves on her for the major portion of the day.
he traces the vein that fades away as it reaches her forearm. she knows that he is the reason that she danced to latino numbers all by herself all night. she wonders, if all this is so beautiful, then why does it have her scared...