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Yes. This is an automated photosynthesis of the literature in me. As if to breathe without any effort, whatever I may adapt here as the subject matter – which often becomes a cage for many writers who try to fit their enormous sky of light astonishment can provoke something perhaps more than just literature. If you are talented at deranging yourselves, the poetic turbulence will haul itself out. Texts still resting at the tip of the tongue, tied to the eye – their representative who wildly roars about everything-, texts soaring like eagles, catching sparks from discrete matches, the ones in which an obscured address of a rendezvous is inscribed but about to be defaced, the last two letters resembling the acronym of my current initialsHT. Before I turn into a fire-breathing phoenix wondering nothing but the perdition that’s about to break out upon human endeavour tonight, I am inclined to dispose of the reserves of whatever is the reminder of the delicate lassitude crossing your heart, through political incorrectness, through the dental cavities of dark delay of true words carrying us to the expeditions of no particular type. Nothing is to be known about these hilltops, groves, almond beaches I refuse to tackle you down in.
This is the rear street of your thoughts starving for silent dilemmas to choke you with a fist not going into the throng you are stuck with. Your need arising from the eternal sleep invested in you. — 9