An Address Without Roads

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In the middle of nowhere, a house beams like the crypt of a spiderweb—fragile geometry holding its secrets fast. Its walls are veined with silk and shadow; broken windows and crooked beams grin through the stench of a lightning strike, sharp and burning and alive. Ozone and laughter tangle in the air, as if the storm itself had learned how to smile, crackling like trapped thunder and promising that whatever enters will never leave unchanged. The windows watch. The roof listens. Nothing around it dares to breathe.

A Private Winter

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Suffering is an emblem of learning, a quiet recital of lessons earned. It is an omen of what is yet to come—a corridor lined with designer scars not yet seen, stitched together by faith. To have faith, you must trust. And to trust, you must accept whatever ride you’re on—the wounds, the scars, the ribbons of pain that slip in whether the doors are open or closed, leaving their marks behind.
You must learn to value your scars, assign them a worth, rather than dwell on their constant intrusion. Keep moving forward. Stop worrying. Let it go. Run wild. Let out your loudest roller-coaster scream. Breathe.
Find the root of the wound. With your best scissors in hand, cut it clean—then sew it back together. Yes, easier said than done. I know. But you are shaping blessings. Tomorrow, you will be healed. One day, you’ll tell the story—how you overcame it all, how the Man Upstairs had a hand in it.
Life lessons.

Dear Kairo!

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Hello sunshine! How’s your day shaping up? All is groovy down here in the boonies, flexing high like a butterfly.

Last night, riding on a motorcycle through the darkened roads, I watched the pesky insects hoovering around like maggots and quietly settle on the ashes, as though they themselves were igniting the festival into motion. There was no light, no candles, no band, no food or drinks; so, what’s the dillio? They gathered in circles, hand in hand, leaping like pigeons startled into flight, arriving with cadence all at once in a rhythm of their own only they understood and communicated, shaking their bums bums like an Hollywood mistress.

Their presence announced itself boldly—sensual, curvaceous, celestial forms pressing forward, magically scintillating in the air, bright and restless, breasts padded by the night air, eyes shaped with a strange and gorgeous intent, hips rotating like vinyl on a dusty turntable, scratching time in a groove not even the hipster DJ could crack, smooth, deliberate, and hypnotic under the low glow of the night, lips muscular and musical, carrying the emblem of an innocence that somehow still breathed. Mesmerized, I watched from afar, aching with envy for a moment that wasn’t mine; dang it! It was impossible not to notice them. They were alluring.

Above and around us, the fuming malaria mosquitoes hovered like hungry beasts, ready to devour their prey, drawn to the frenzy, to the mayhem of heat and movement. They buzzed their way down, descending without mercy, feeding on the chaos of the night, turning the air thick with their hum. Yeah, I felt the heat burning my forehead—I woke up long enough to see a giant mosquito standing on its feet and reading me my rights. The nerve! It was feasting on me, like Dracula, sucking on my blood cocktail with a fugitive force and I was one to stay still, listening to my own heartbeat fade into its mouth. Surreal. It was a night alive—unsettling, vivid, unforgettable—a dream however, I felt compelled to share with you, someone.

Yours legally and emotionally,
Eloi Ahoy