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.



The winds,
The locusts,
A stain in the lungs,
The dark in the well,
A memory of them,
The loss of thought,
The insipid Sunday,
A name for the monster,
The doubt at the gates,
A storm on the holiday,
The ill skin,
The need,
A fall off the bridge,
The flash of a death,
A doubt at the gates,
The topsy-turvy,
The nausea,
A treason,
The inconsolable human,
A spin onto nowhere,
The grabbing,
The holding,
A thorny hand,
The run,
A footprint on the soul,
The blindfold,
The absent voice,
A demon,
The sun,
A lonely walk on the path chosen, but still afraid to face.