UNKNOWN SLEEPLESS NIGHTS preserving a life, attending every instant to this infernal power of uneventful order. I, as a weakling, find these efforts tiresome.
We hear a valuable whisper.
Usually I prefer lying down starring at the hidden secret we wear-out by living and how will we return with empty hands?
In your hands, we all respect water.
Often wondered, how many, really, are in the house, at times I would count their gloves to verify, but I knew there were the others, with pain on their naked fingers.
To forget you? I have forgotten.
In bygone days, strangers would walk in, never leaving. I did not see them, but saw their coachmen falling and dying out on the street, waiting.
An Aeolus bag of emptied Time.
At dinner, I would hear their racontes concealing with terror the Dark, the faraway Out. This touch I felt, since there was no-one ?Are you there??
Sophocles enters the scene.
Nightfall dressed by the melodies of the harp. It may not be a harp, but this immortal sorrow that comes with creative craft.Â