There is a me that only comes out in writing.

For instance, “when she smiles, her lips extend to meet her eyes.”

Sometimes I feel that’s the only part of me worth living for, to sustain as my body is torn into pieces by all the shit I have to deal with, like I must give the Argentine consulate my goddamn exit flight out of Buenos Aires, like I know where I’ll be in a month let alone seven.

She looks earthly in her brown overcoat, tall and lean with hair the color of the midday sun glaring at you.

I want to tear open her shirt, out of a mixed desire to hold her in my arms and just as much, to ruin her outfit.

Born in Berlin. Who is?

Question of the day: how can I manufacture more of the me I like so that I can endure the hours till slumber?

Scratch that, how can I forget me?

Dignaga says there is no self but that there are periods of experience, one flowing onto the other, like waves in the ocean, nothing discrete except only in mind.

She is beautiful. I want to punch her face, make the blood drip down her chin onto my open palms.

Would I be happier dead?

Serendipitous meetings.

People I know on the street — co-organizer of the group

Face turns gloomy when I mention Derrida, but eyes are very pleased. 

Flirting with Berlin, like I am one of his own.

Take a selfie, fake a life.

Men making passes at me even when I look (feel?) like shit.

Habibi! Is she calling me?