In the fall, the dreams run rampant.
Dreams of great mechanical emotions and people who are simple.
Walking against depressive wind.
Today the sky was a perfect consistency.
A hue of mixed opacity, "like something from a Japanese painting".
[Only children]
I'm not stupid, I'm not vulgar. I am none of the things you so desperately want to believe. I am not that one which you gossip about because you yourselves are so seamlessly imperfect. After all of this, I am still human. You may say nothing more.
A radiance of health, hailing from beside the ocean, sparks the world here and takes away euphorically all the falsities and the layers of hope shorn by time.
Like the sun, burning ever powerfully, whose destruction hopes to be beyond the lives of the delicate creations watching it.
To love in distance and perfect, and gladly so. Unaffected and familiar as surprisingly broken-in-against trauma allows for comfort that the years past have watched in vain. To all the tomorrows of watching walking and sitting beside and speaking like those who are wondered about and assumed to be occurring by some invisible hand, unreachable and not to be worried of. We smile because we now are no longer emulators.
Musical tones that cross my deepest.
This, could be miraculous.
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