These little things in life that I actually hate them, I love them. Tender or explosive, smooth film-coated or raw rock, and through them I swallow, sometimes they turn to swallow me. I feel them, they vibrate. Shock wave, a wave of dying summer sea, I welcome them as they arise, as they unfurl. Sometimes the rage in the belly, often meaning boil, never indifferent, under penalty of small premature death.
Bleeding love to fall out. The heart that squirts, burning flesh. Exorcise this plague of hell, open your eyes, see the colors. Spitting words, others to heal the world turns more beautiful, for the hours it sound clearer. Digging my wrinkles, and then scream again and dance. On the days that lead us in the winter mornings, under the cloak of a starry night. Daring to follow their pace and keep the measure, not improvise with all my adventures.
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