ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Little filaments. The paillasse ( straw matress ) of a skin in disuse maintains on itself only a crumb of forgiveness. From nothing nothing comes. Still resounds from the street. On an open window there are no barricades, cotton, eventually, if lucky only on sketch of pain. To outline the color is the secret. So I can think for a while, at least there is no need for barricades to jerk ( jolt ) to the previous scream. From nothing nothing comes. Now the window is still open, but the plot is shaped by the new director. He just looks for imprecision in the contour line. He clutched the secret. In fact, the open window doesn't allow the scream in. But the secret is only a remnant of the words which gave birth to the beginning of things. A man, with a glass bottle thrust in his nose and his trembling hands understood it. With his trousers spotted of red, he laughes scornfully, he sneers. For a moment with the palm, his dirty cut palm, dries his mouth. And sardonically shouts again. From nothing nothing comes. The secret is cracked, the open window stammers. Those words are in again. But it is not true. Truth is not pregnant. No, it cannot. Vanity is its dream, twaddles are its sins. We don't believe in truth, that's the new scream. The scream of who has one bottle thrust in his nose and onother one in his hand. We don't believe in truth because we don't believe in kings. We believe in what truth is not. We believe in what lie is not.
I, I really don't know. What I want is a soft and sweet step on my walk. Come here. As an old piece of wood, for few I squeak, for the few of the heart I blossom. In parfumes like a saint I may give words. But only in the blessing of sweetness. Only in winter.
I, I really don't know. What I want is a soft and sweet step on my walk. Come here. As an old piece of wood, for few I squeak, for the few of the heart I blossom. In parfumes like a saint I may give words. But only in the blessing of sweetness. Only in winter.