Once again. The night condenses sharply among the sick bell towers that stay playful for so many nights of oblivion. There is a lament in space that separates the immense universe that builds my multiple existences. I am sorry that it must not be but enjoys being alive and that the moon shines, and that tears slide its bittersweet taste to reality. Once again. The ship migrates from the ocean to condense on land and be a serenely sterile being. Wandering journey that must be the perfect reflection of so many absences that when recreated build our spirits. Once again. There is no muteness that resists the monotonous crackle of bonfires, night fires that must be but withered resonances of those haunted, perpetual vapours of which he loves to be more God and less project. Again, it rains days, weeks, years... and my hands keep sliding out of nowhere to be this: illusions of calm, vague nights.
