Believe I barely know anything, nothing. The infinite pages, the depth of all paintings, notes in, notes out, the pain in the horizon and the one covering one's feet. There won't be time, I mightn't choose anything, nothing. Though...It is alright. For the sun ain't mine and the ground feels warm and I'm not that blind and there's lots of leaves and a sea where to dwell, one can lie back and enjoy the breeze. There is enough salt water in my hands so far.

I have come to find out there ain't sufficient where-to-store-the-words-the-words.

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