The Closeness That Separates Us - when feelings go beyond words 'We are already moving into a game, and I am not sure I like the gaming part. The risk is too high, fun, however it might be. I want real life, in all its aspects, and yes, also the risky ones. Games are just games. It's like fiction, where you can try out things, see if they work, throw possibilities up into the air and see whatever falls down, with a bump, with a crash, with a gentle landing, with a bounce, and what fl oats or flies around up there, in the sky, be it beautiful but out of reach, or controlled from the ground, by the artist. That's fine, but unreal. My half-told stories, my mediocre poems, my indifferent blog scribblings can do that, but I want real life, and real-life risks when it seems worth running them. So show it to me, your purgatory. Describe it. In a mail, or a picture, whatever you find fitting. Or not fitting at all. I want your words, if they are real, and I want to feel the person behind the words. So I am just saying: Keep feeding me mails, keep tickling my mind. If you one day want to tickle my toes, I am sure that can be negotiated too, somehow, somewhere, somewhen. As long as it's real and not just words and thoughts and "what if" speculations and dreams. Those, I have had plenty of, just like you mention. Short-lived, split-second things, roaring by before they became unblurry. This is different. You are different. I like it.'

The Closeness That Separates Us - when feelings go beyond words 'We are already moving into a game, and I am not sure I like the gaming part. The risk is too high, fun, however it might be. I want real life, in all its aspects, and yes, also the risky ones. Games are just games. It's like fiction, where you can try out things, see if they work, throw possibilities up into the air and see whatever falls down, with a bump, with a crash, with a gentle landing, with a bounce, and what fl oats or flies around up there, in the sky, be it beautiful but out of reach, or controlled from the ground, by the artist. That's fine, but unreal. My half-told stories, my mediocre poems, my indifferent blog scribblings can do that, but I want real life, and real-life risks when it seems worth running them. So show it to me, your purgatory. Describe it. In a mail, or a picture, whatever you find fitting. Or not fitting at all. I want your words, if they are real, and I want to feel the person behind the words. So I am just saying: Keep feeding me mails, keep tickling my mind. If you one day want to tickle my toes, I am sure that can be negotiated too, somehow, somewhere, somewhen. As long as it's real and not just words and thoughts and "what if" speculations and dreams. Those, I have had plenty of, just like you mention. Short-lived, split-second things, roaring by before they became unblurry. This is different. You are different. I like it.'