strange silence, that of the post, that of boredom.
finish the tumult of white water, dry the torrent of emotions. Empty
infinite dark abyss where icy plunge chills, whispers and murmurs, which drown cyclones, with flowing Unreason.
Desert conditioned, decorated cardboard, out of the reach of curious who linger.
signs piling up, the remnants of a past time telling his story, fragments of humanity. A hand-sewn patchwork
dreams and pain, laid on the cold bed of a love killer.
A foreign presence, two familiar ghosts haunting the places of their complaints haunting, traveling this closed loop delusional.
The source has dried up, the rock dried up, exposing the harshness of land threatened by the advancing hours by flight seasons.
Here is a very informative article recently found in Metropolis magazine. I can not fit more lift without thinking! 
