Out of the night darkness to the lightness of the night ... I was wearing the robe of shyness from seduction of the violet ripples, it spills, so sprouts seasons that suffered from the scarcity of rains.
Soft like a velvet cat ... Eyelids are blades and spears, and the eyes arise my astonishment ... Pregnant with a lot of forbidden questions after I have tried more than thousand of times intermingling loss by staying late.
An old table in a forgotten corner .. her innocence is violated by two wooden seats whispering about the curves of the light when it reflects her simple details, so longing gets back as a wave misses its beach to suicide over the treacherous rocks.
The extent is insomnia ... The attendants through to two white birds hiding from the rut if the branches that sprout between two joined gates of paradise on illusion of daisy. Two strangers captured opens for secret stories and internal burns don’t end but feeling dizzy.
Daily familiar full of cherish and noise, internally symphonic in harmony with the far and non-completed chats and twisting of the words. Repeated optimism to the extent of absurdity or hero to shoes’ cleaner old as the place, the bitterness of coffee taste tickles the throat and cuddles the clouds of nicotine from a shivering cigarette which will end fast, vague desire embraces in darkness at the day light .. These all were sufficient to reflect the disappointment to old audience who aged at the seats of absence waiting “Godot” in an open-end, that dreams are non-worthy.
- Do you know ....
- and Do you know ...
- Very strange
- But very wonderful
- You .........
- and You ..........
- But ............
- Maybe ......
- Perhaps .....
Always I repeating to myself that they would never meet .... The creatures that split of the body of platonic myth of an object was inadvertently omitted from the memory of a God that its lonesome lead him to madness. I always repeated to myself, how is it, despite being impossible, is comfortable .. Saturation, how it is enjoyable to move around to taste all flowers’ colors.
But suddenly, as naive and miserable screenwriter .. Sometimes, it happens to link a deferred fate to the absurdity of the chance, that unique being stares in his lonesome.... To listen to the conscience of the mirrors and tries to review the order of deleting or adding things.
So _ this might be the most important question _ how the flower feels while sprouting between the wrinkles of the rocks?
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