(I.) And I've dreamt the dreams of the flowers
β¦And they are all really nastyβ¦ What are the real rates of the heart, I wonder? If I could dream my heart into slumber, I would dream of the fire that set the next penniless town ablaze and make all my sisters and brothers profit from those which made them not feel, in any space, the safest. Even if our stories were the tragedies of the peonies left uncollected and passionless, I know there is something that opposes the sartorial substraction. Let me weave our fallen petals into something else. Let me metam ...Read more
The Descent to Hell is easy. It is the re-rising unscathed that requires a feat.
The feet that knows no winning and neither defeat that is for now is lying.
They have not known everything. They have not known nothing.
Oneiroiβ eaters of realitiesβ on their tables, on their feasts, I have dined. I have inched
Towards the black door. Royal, I have kept my innards focusedly suppressed with my fists
Like a track-list of killing under the banished tree. (The banshee will wail for me! Royally wail!)
The fusses and the sophistry are decked. (The banshee will wail for me! Bum me and youβ ...Read more