(portrait & story)
DESERT
I discover something true to cross this desert, gather a few words is not the same as saying something. And silence does not quiet add thirst. The ink is dry. Dry the soul and mourning. All dictionaries are books of others and the only letters that can mean something are the five to write vation o. Sometimes, Sometimes, how deep is you. I can not find the place from which came the stories I used to have, but better I admit, yes I see it, but I have some inability to make a river with the drops I have left.
Rain, rain, rain. And walking distance is between the fingers when typing winter or hell, the same as it ever was between Maybe and Maybe.
No panic at the blank page, all pages are in flames.
A writer writes not well known that breathing is not the same as being alive.
No panic at the blank page, all pages are in flames.
A writer writes not well known that breathing is not the same as being alive.
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