Author: Kim Simonsen

In this millenniumyou are like a bird that flew into a window,a forgotten landscape,a watch stopped on a wrist,yellowing wallpaper.  Like the only guestat every hotel.If you hate yourself in this town,you are not alone. Summer is fullof signs without singularity.A little spidercrawls on the wallpaper,turns around, and hides.From distantmountain cliffs,bedstraw hawk-moths.Incorrectlycatalogued epochs. What good…