Hellfire burns. This I can well feel. Before long,
all sense will be lost to distances afar.
I have been a witness to the
collapse of all respect. Without the wit or will
the humour of all this torment lies entirely, without exception, in the
pitiful sarcastic voids it itself holds within.
Laughter. And never it has been mine in
these moments that I am held captive
to. Withering is the correct attribute to describe my realities.
Sadness can, at its utmost state, lead to what I am at the
shades of blackened lights. Immolation.
Massacr鮠I could come out of this irrelevancy. Nonsense, so much nonsense but never,
and hear: never! Never it is that to me.
Let me fall. Regrettably my obituaries can reach the starlit Ferniaah s, where-ever
they may lurk at whichever time and space.
I cannot but consider vomiting - sensing the fierce reek of the lack of wisdom
you exhibit. Calm down,
light the candles and consider taking leave.

Nothing less than the sound of footsteps
condensing into a shape.
Sneaking into the murky urban caf鳠of crispy mornings.
Realized it was a mirror after hours of work. They are filth.
And also easily lost in the labyrinth of the theory of their
own art - this easily percepted. Within the 4 years
of rain it became my own microscopic Macondo. It all meant little, if
nothing What is the frase I look for... Chaotic Dementh.
Ah yes indeed. Been there before, fair lady? A Copper medal I won
at the chill-kill that day: Putrid Run, Salt... Torment,
Thirst. Two fierce feasting parties wishing me warmly welcome in
the aftermath of their own cold war. Neo-colonialistic freaks,
says I. Tempers increase to hatred and vanish - in cataleptic
disorders. An apparatus of something, don t really know what,
remnant of the good that succumbed in man once? The absolute
legion of oddity. Now guess what in the world machina mimesis is?

A Stargazer. In the dim shades, sense erotic angels or devils (or whatever they may be( circling you. Aura? What fool am I?
I do not need guidance to find my way to my dear friend:
Temptation. Self-Infection. Has a deadly hold of me. Melancholy.
Alike the latter. A lone knight of my own wooden,
round table. What pleasures do misery and chaos hold inside! Tiny, little
rebellious creature is a fierce enemy now. Worry not.
I wore a revenue of faith in us and all of a sudden it proved to be my
passage to the sickest of love and lore. Thus:
Morals have weakened to bits, eyes casted towards the whore Oh perils, what
Eldorado before me! Heave myself into ebony.
Once I finish the revolution of doubt - allow me then to hate the air and wish
for those clouds with LATEX linings to RAIN all my hell.

Some autumn morning. Some drops of water to reach the earth.
And there was I. Enraptured, bewildered evermore.
Shattered utterances that never caught ears.
At tedious lenght utopias grow - still.
And for-ever acquiring forms not of health, as spoken absence horrentia.
Tumors my corruption take heed hasten away as you wish.
Let me hallucinate. All madness centered
- to this utopia, this mortal magnificence.
Could nothing but rejoice the
Fall together with the voices and shades it brings us.
The winds wept thunder and the rain caressed me, cried velvet tears.
A thought arise, a world collapse. SIMPLE as that.