exude space. Remotes.
Even with that color semi dense paper ..
dot the i.
government still will not
but I can skip them.
shy smile hidden in darkness.
Apparently nothing makes sense.
There is only time.
There is only space.
But there are no categories.
Only a transient stream of persuasion and seduction
refute that from time to time and laugh.
I laugh because in the end refute with
doubt and instead of losing the trust between the tracks
she starts to see, hear and love.
The dear blind faith and bad turns
ten-tenths of sphericity.
Almost perfect death, these philosophical this perpetual cycle unit of the human race.
Unit.
Whore of meetings stray.
dot the i.
What you can not draw
without removing the pencil from the paper.
Modigliani and his long necks.
long necks without eyes,
how many of us are like them.
murmur.
silent.
creep on the moon and music theory.
correct their steps ..
No, do not do it anymore.
does not do it anymore.
A jump to the rhythm of incessant beats
sweat, light and looks that you understand.
They understand that in the end only
all are made as they are made.
Or how it took place or be put.
Or someone has put them.
But it is not the central motivation.
It 'like a star ice
gift to his girlfriend
revealing in their immaturity
stalactites that man can now
buy everything.
Including the purchase of their understanding
for what they buy. Buy
so also the unanimous acceptance of his friends
long necks blind trust
paper ball and crawling and Solfeggio
on the moon without even asking why
there is no time and there is no room for anything else
.
No.
do not play anymore.
I'm going. do not play anymore.
Really.
Life is an unmade bed
I take what I find
and I leave behind me that I take.
To all a stream of dots on the
that one by one, forming a line,
and scheduled in line form a path,
location and form a path
design and drawing design
recreate from scratch what we have destroyed.
Everything
to move forward in that cycle
spherical and unitary
no longer belongs to the original strain.
But only degeneration of the same.
characters that are handed down sometimes yes sometimes no,
and gradually fade away forever.
A room and strange noises
remind me of who I was inside my head
.
Inside my head. Ah, Uoh.
How come nothing and I was studying, can do evil with the beating of wings.
Not to mention the other dimension.
and moving objects.
And the mind leaves the body and flies to another dimension,
a nation of heroes who enters into us ..
We writers of a past still present
traitors and understanding, the surveyor with his eyes closed
of what we carry and what to leave out
is lost forever
among those thousand zeros.
Contra
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