Our coastal city lies in perpetual twilight of a dream. The pollution paints the sunsets in colors of sickly pink, tempting citizens to commit a sin. Our water supply is poisoned with copper and fears, and even our faucets weep at night. Our air is bitter, our soul pours out, and everything we taste is seasoned with tears. On the street corner, a faceless man turns to me, pleading: "When your sweetheart is six months pregnant with your child, take a marker and write in bold letters on her belly - 'I am the murderer of your passions'".

I woke up, and behold - it was a dream.

Each morning I wake up from my bitter dreams into a reality where nothing stirs: I watch all those blurry figures walking in the public space without any fuel of desire and feel that there's some great essential matter around here that I'm missing. I remain spellbound by the dream until evening, when its magic fades as I encounter my monochromatic reality.

I don’t know what's wrong with my mechanism, but almost every relationship I had at some point turned into that evening breeze that comes from the sea and threatens to crumble wishes into rust.

Many times it's hard for you to break free from it, you don't want to hurt people and make her realize what a fatal mistake she made when she chose you somewhere under the dome of the sky, as you kissed and promised her your eternal love. Too bad girls can't tell when you've already broken up with them in your heart, long before they impose their nakedness upon you.

I still imagine that one day I will meet someone who will possess a truth that no one else can speak. That her big eyes will shout to me: "let's do vandalism together, not out of hatred, God forbid, but out of enormous love". And my own eyes will respond: "My love. You are all I have. You and I are from the same quarry of precious stones". I also deserve a small sample of it.

She will surely have thick lips and an enormous chest that will contain within it everything a man yearns for. And she will be very beautiful, although beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it's an integration of components that communicate with each other and with you.

But just as long as she has thick lips. Maybe she exists somewhere and will burst into my life in a storm, and then we'll meet at night in high places and I'll hold her hand under the meteor shower so she won't be afraid of the falling star upon her. I just need to maintain cautious optimism; anyway, it's a hundred times easier for me to find good sex than true love in this city.

In the meantime, maybe I'll meet someone, not for the sake of profit (that includes mutual exchanges of body fluids). We'll talk about the deepest truths of the heart, without falling victim to our sexual boredom. Maybe there will also be a spark and then we'll meet and order a bastard bottle of whiskey and unleash havoc upon it, for all eyes to witness.

I believe in my ability to do this; I just need to gather some ambition to battle my evolutionary urges that impose temporary desires on me, and to demonstrate more responsibility in the personal realms between male and female, even if I know that the sin hides somewhere in the allure of first intoxications.

I roll another cigarette.

The day passes by and it's getting late, but everything is clear even under the darkest night. Now everything makes sense to me. I began to fall asleep on the sofa, and from the forming dream I begin to hear her voice and mine blending together in a passion without an end.

Lucky number 13 for Prose. Radio, with (unintended) a lucky number of 7 talents featured. We'll link the pieces here below so you can bear witness to the beauty...

The work is as varied as it is lifting.

Here's the link to the show:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BlSbnMtA6gs&t=311s

What else...

Oh, of course:

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Featured pieces: https://www.theprose.com/post/807643/...

https://www.theprose.com/post/807359 https://www.theprose.com/post/807620/... https://www.theprose.com/post/806772/... https://www.theprose.com/post/805931/... https://www.theprose.com/post/806372/... https://www.theprose.com/post/805881/...

A spontaneous recording session from a found piece of gold ignited the twelfth episode over at Prose. Radio. We'll add the piece and writer in the comments. Nothing says Tuesday like black coffee and a bittersweet story. Gets no better.

Here's the link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_h3z8MM2M&t=116s

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Our eleventh show on Prose. Radio was spawned by the music of Buckley, but, it was led on from TheWolfeDen's Challenge, then into a touch of hellfire and something waiting to, well, shine, in his own way...

Hear the two pieces here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHhGGEz8eC4&t=62s

Let's get this week to the weekend, where a stiff drink awaits...

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I remember crying softly, the welts were still fresh,

Coloured streaks of red and violet raised against my flesh.

I felt lost, alone, scared.

I needed someone to hold me but I felt abandoned.

Only the darkness in my room to keep me company.

My pain still haunts me, I find it hard to open up,

It's easier to hide behind my mask.

I wanted to say I'm scared, but I didn't know why.

I wanted to say I was afraid but I only cried instead.

I felt betrayed by her,

She never offered me comfort, she never said I cared.

Abused and worn, she broke me,

The man-child, too quickly, became the man.

I remember crying, softly...

The welts would scar over, the pain would hide itself away,

But, when I look at my children sleeping,

I remember the loneliness, the pain.

Maybe it still haunts me, in ways I will never understand,

But I offer them my love freely & every night I promise

That they will never cry of alone.

The Eyes are the Windows of the Soul

The eyes are the windows of the soul. Gaze deeply within their owner. Scrutinize each detail. Wonder about the origins and prospects of a future together. Take in all this portal has to offer. But, remember this one fact. Windows are the conduit for light in more than one direction. When you foray into such action, another is also on reconnaissance. Caveat Emptor.

Listening to the music,

echoes of yesterday and memories of love.

Was I really that young?

Did life really have meaning

or was that just a illusion?

Looking at some photographs,

the sound stage of my youth.

Bobby and Martin,

whispers of the truth.

Was I really so naïve?

Good-bye was just a word

and love was only a game.

Listening to the news,

Hearing the same words

from a fresh pair of lips..,

And wondering if Nam

was really Bosnia

or is Calley really Sadam?

Did my purple heart

really stop the bleeding

even as it opened my soul?

Listening to the music,

echoes of yesterday

and memories of love.

Was I really that young?

Did I really believe

that love would conquer all?

Do I tell my children the truth

or just let their dreams unfold?

In our tenth broadcast on Prose. Radio, we dive into forms colliding to form a formidable form from the form formidable first. Thank the coffee for that one. But, on the show, Last leads first, and then a doctor of an exact mark of punctuation closes the broadcast with a piece leaving you lighter, yet heavier. You'll have to hear it.

Always loved sound influencing the page, or maybe just moving it along differently.

Here's the link to the show, and we'll leave the pieces and writers in the comments.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QCJQl8jc-k&t=66s

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Gentle ride

through the seven seas,

with you, my guide:

the wayward breeze.

Capsize my heart

with no just reprieve,

a flailing thing

cast to the sea.

Still breathing, dear,

weak at the knees.

To find us here,

so thoroughly at ease.