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The limits of misfortune

I no longer have the desire or strength to write. I'm tired of pouring my false fictions, my little dream ends by pretending not to believe.

I write and think as I buy a tea machine in college, four yellow pieces to slide into the slot and one or two key presses: for months, the cup was there; it fills up, I expect the chirp feverishly and liberating. I want sugar, but I am afraid to burn their fingers and lips. I forgot Brewed color too and the taste of Ceylon. The last time was last winter and since that day I tried everything to keep my hands warm, sheltered from the cold . thrust into the pockets of my pea coat, mittens, gloves, mittens, fists connected against the warm breath of my mouth useless. Darjeeling, ginseng, mint, lemon. Nothing did. It is not my heart, my hands are cold, all red and cracked, to the wrist, up my watch too much. (You know, black.) Always right wrist. To think that I am deliberately leaving them out, my hands hanging and dead, that you take in the yours. Myself, I would never drag them in your pockets.

But it's too long to explain. Unless you take your afternoon, and you offer me tea.

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Negation of poetry

Greeks. Those damn Greeks.

'Seems to say yes, they shake their heads from right to left, to say no, it's up and down. And then a semicolon in them is a question mark here. It is not easy to get used to the contrary, move from black to white twinkling of an eye, perpetual culture shock and surprise over the job, huh.

Total incomprehension. They go for disturbed, the Greeks. And then, with their weird alphabet, signs and winding all broken, they make anyone laugh. They are pathetic and have names that never writes the right way the first time. They have a tone in their voice warm and nonchalant, which prints a mocking smile on the lips of another. Fatally. It's not their fault, of course. But God knows why, we do not take them seriously.

Their skin always feels the chalk of their islands, it is a little cloud of nostoi , you know what I mean? They look to the east, there, towards the blue and white, white and blue. You can see it right there in the whites of their eyes. As in the cartoons. Scratches in the iris, and a cross in the top left. Pile hair on the conjunctiva, hop. Are bizarre, the folks ...

Good. I am perhaps a bloody Greek, then.

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Spleen future

is where dreams evaporate into hundreds of thousands of gray lenses. There are times where the trouble comes fast, you know ... When you are when you do, when we ...

The moon is too faithful ally. It melts on my shoulders, sometimes, like Judah embracing Jesus, then it hits, resonates throughout the brain, in every corner of my mind. If once and for all eternity we could ... We liked ... But who is we?

This candle is perched on the windowsill - in my lonely window, the last bulwark against the hostilities night - look at me with his red wax lying on the floor, hands shot in the ceiling. No sound and I hear Sigur Ròs echoing from the depths of the ages unto the limits of the species. The heart and poumme Toumma, inaudible, just sensitive. Stay! ... And if we had taken the time to tell. Everything. Would have been different?

in the mood I regret with a passion extinguished and cold to my stomach knotted ridiculous. I would have been different, as much as you. It seems that the figures are changing because the world is reversible. The cat flies, gracious in her feline race, sensual, precious, the dog is drowning, but happy is against trains submarines, these miraculous banks tits gold and azure. In the middle do I find? In-between, always at the intersection of these roads that invisible force me bar. Sometimes you, sometimes me, sometimes that, and yet other days even the Other. Where am I?

If only the memories do not disappear in my memory dirty ... Polished by time, wind-rock, the scraps that are left cronies, and that the moon is a traitor, dissolve when I did not realize their impending absence. And that emptiness, the abyss, the abyss, the abbess, m'abaissent ceases ... of ... exist ... The time is greedy, gambling to be prevails straightforward, legally: too many words for the ills afflicting never apprehended do a little more.

Yet the vast wave that is beyond window, plains, valleys, basins, oceans, countries and continents across the world perhaps, invites me to live again, a little bit, told me that this place some disembodied await the gathering of men, and they will wait, even if it does not see it coming, then they die will say "I lived for nothing, for while I lived. "

Let us lose all the strongholds of our ancestors, do not keep our nose to closed cases, when everything vanishes by the heights of an infinite universe beyond us.

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Momentary interruption of programs ... In

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And soon, you never know when the urge will point the tip of his nose!