repeticiones

5.7.22

5.7.17

23.12.16

6.2.16

7.4.15

24.9.14

11.9.14

9-N.

Una caseta empetxinada i

una de portes blaves.

Dins el carreró, on dibuixa

el mar, l'horitzó.

Dins el carreró, on perfila

blanc, un primer petó.

Dins el carreró, un plor

esquerrà, mil adéus, una visió.

Una caseta empetxinada i

una de portes blaves.

Entremig.

El carreró,

Catalunya, estimada,

d'un instant somiat.

3.7.14

I’ve been thinking about us, the story of us. How the fuck do I sum it up? Has it been perfect? Hardly. Any story with me at the center of it will never be anything less than a big smiling mess. But here’s what I know for sure: our time in the sun has been a thing of absolute fucking beauty. The nightmares, the hangovers, the fucking and the punching. The gorgeous shimmering insanity of the city of ours, where for years I woke up, fucked up, said I was sorry, passed out and did it all over again. As a writer, I’m a sucker for happy endings. The guy gets the girl, she saves him from himself, fade to fucking black. As a guy who loves a girl, I realize there’s no such thing. There’s no sunset. There’s just now, and there’s just the two of us, which can be scary fucking ugly sometimes. But if you close your eyes and listen for the whisper of your heart, if you simply keep trying and never ever give up, no matter how many times you get it wrong, until the beginning and the end blur into something called until we meet again. And that’s it. I didn’t know how to finish it, because it’s not over. It’ll never be over, as longs as there’s you, and there’s me, and there’s hope, and grace.