Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.

Silent Hour is mostly night.

There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.

Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.

It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.

It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.

Silent Hour is me.


On Eunoia Review. thanks to Ian Chung.

Eunoia Review

Flickering figures in a series of streetscapes. Days and nights pass through scratchy loudspeakers. That house where you first stayed when you came here. You know, this area was not always so full of verbal incompetence. But now there’s a new ingredient to the natural order.

If you find yourself feeling like a statue in a ballroom, trust me: I know how it feels. As Rimbaud proclaimed, it absolutely sucks.

Change your vibe.

Abandon yourself gently into thin air. Put on dark blue silk, soft twilight obscurity.

Grab nourishment from flaming planets, the twining of a vine, storytellers and a heartbeat that doesn’t count time.

Let the lines roll off your tongue without thought, let them float like rose petals in a lazy afternoon – infinite space in the lethargy of an hour.

However strange it may seem to say this, keep breathing. Remember at what price such simplicity comes…

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The note says I love you and I hold it in my hand, I stare at the words and feel like I’m sweating, this kind of sweat that doesn’t break but only boils under the skin, and I think Why can’t the earth open up and swallow me?

The next day he comes up to me, and I can see it on his face, it’s not easy for him and here comes the sweat again, and why can’t the earth open up and swallow me, right now, this very minute, so I turn around and ran, as fast as I can, I ran away.

Silly preteen.


Ah… Was that necessary? I didn’t do anything special… I just brought you the book… That was strange… Nice too… Yes, that was nice. Thanks.

Me: first time a friend kissed my cheek. Standing still.


This is my hand.

I flex the fingers. My fingers.

These are my arms. I have three freckles on my right shoulder.

These are my eyes. Brown. They are mine.

This is me. In front of a mirror. How strange to say ‘this is me.’

I am a miracle. So are you.


I remember when we talked about the streets. I hadn’t been to that part of town since I was a kid. I can follow the road curves with eyes closed. I know where to turn. I’m on the hill. The house I’m looking for is below street level. There were steep stairs down and a lemon tree.

We liked coming here with Stavroula. On the way, she’d stop and talk to women from the neighbourhood. These chats carried the mysteries of adult life, but also seemed endless. Eventually we’d get bored and start tugging at her sleeve. We can still remember snippets, and what the women looked like.

Stavroula doesn’t live here now. Her son does. I could go down the stairs. I could tell him who I am. Instead, I look at the house’s terrace, the top of the lemon tree, and further ahead at the valley, the river and the sea.

It’s something new to me, this kind of nostalgia. And the realisation I can’t go back. I hadn’t felt like this before. I never needed to come to this part of town, where I remember the streets but the streets don’t remember me. But I did, and here I am now, thinking of the girl who was dreaming what the future would be. What her self would be.


A dance floor. Everything that goes with it and no excuses.

Dilated eye to dilated eye / where the drums don’t stop / linked like a chain / we play / past and present like no one’s watching / stories of lost and found / we can have wings / or be made of spare parts / our foreheads touch / sweat / and we laugh: until our jaws hurt / as if this is our last night on earth.

On a dancefloor, these questions can be answered without a word.

(Questions – Cid Inc)


A long time ago, long ago, so long ago that no one can remember, and no tree can remember, and no stone can rememberthere were the thousand cymbals of the long midday. I laid down by a river, under the plane trees, the warmth of the earth seeping under my skin. I pressed myself closer, molded to her curves. My arms were the earth’s arms. My hips were the earth’s hips. Her currents swirled inside me. Heavy, slow like oil. Forces of touch; forces that act at a distance. My lips wanted his. The murmuring of the river. Wings. Fluttering overhead. Faster. Not harder, like mountaintops. In circles, my honourable friends. They make springs come forth. My spine a collapsing bridge. Caught in a sunbeam, my cries floated above the leaves and dissolved in the aether. I licked the thrill off my fingers.

Had he been there, I would have kept my eyes open. And god could have watched all he wanted.


This is a true story. And if it isn’t, it should be.

Yes. No. Yes. Yes yes yes. Uh oh. No. Or maybe yes. Definitely no. Or not. You say what — yes? Guess. Find that spot — press.

No. Yes. No. I don’t know. Possibly yes. Could be yes. No. No no no. Rising like dough. Did you say yes? Confess.

Hmm… Uhh…  No. Don’t think so. For sure yes. Probably no. May I borrow your crossbow? Please say yes, nonetheless.

Itheles. Read as less. Yes. No. Yes. Strike. Caress. Ti les? Thes? Alpha yes. Mega O. Tell me something I don’t know. Psevdes.  Like my dress?

Ti mou les? Really yes. Not like chthes… Unless… No. Oh no. We’ll be late for the show. What a mess of triches katsares.

Yes. No. Yes. Reassess. Although pes, gia tou logou to alithes, did you read my nonsense? Did you — yes? Success!



There was a huge cover poster of a pop singer as you entered. Even after a month’s holiday, one glimpse of her smile and here we are. Not a day has passed.

My mind was squeezed dry. Always a demand for more. What’s one more project for you? Nothing. We’ve seen what you can do. What’s two? 

The burnout was spectacular on the inside –scorched fields, wastelands, burned reeds– and still I was perfection. Not one error in so many pages. Vitamins, supplements, handfuls. Bead after bead after bead, meaningless string.

The day I used my work’s password on my computer I was very upset.


When you asked about the woods, my breath caught. Knee-jerk. Pleasant not.

Time is something you have a lot of, but are still reluctant to waste. You want what you want. Don’t care if I’m there, wide-eyed.

Never mind what I thought. It’s not what you think I thought. Stupid insects.