Concept. Nature is a temple where living pillars
Let sometimes emerge confused words:
Man passes there through forests of symbols
Who watch him with familiar glances.
Charles Baudelaire
He was the love between your fingers and eyes the shade of a constant sadness.
itself was defined as absent, uninhabited, far from the sea, mourning, not in the language you want, without hope of return.
How I was I better not say now that between searching names, histories, migration and forces, shame, joy, regular absences counter, buy tickets, sail seas, is that there is a time for nothing, after a Holy Week pasmarotes hoods and under the protective moldings of the rain I wonder what am I doing here shelling improbable stories, these things do not happen, so dim, both lost love, broken off from nothing situations, travel anywhere, roads along the edge to imagine what does not, what an idea, a anyone who tells you with a butcher's apron, cutting the beef carcass of emotions, watching flowers grow bitter sorrow, time as a corkscrew, dying of boredom, boredom, like a flag in the middle of the street dogs howling in the absence of other activity, wounds, blood, death notices, that old lady across the table, his mind empty, filled with Alzheimer's, look at the page, put it upside down, the I turn around and I'll take two, I look at the blog, mime, preserves, replacing what not (a question), in this time of clouds is a magic trick, an illusion, a post for a change you I, silent behind the walls without frames mark what happened in the wallpaper, palimpsest palimpsest, ie that even before before before, anxiety, cowardice, the heart in a jar of alcohol, heat, color hail in processions, saints on the floor, Nazarenes in the portal, look for a second before love, the cries silenced by his fingers, which no one will hear the forbidden pleasure and yet, alas, I do not know what to do here, in this white drifter without oars or rowers to the wind of imagination, between waves, living costs, including bananas and corn fields, bushes, ferns, cradling those who come, leaving the threshold as I said, caressing the neck, my lips on her back , body numb, I knew then I did not know want to stop loving, paths with snakes and hounds, horses grazing in the mist, painted white cows in the distance, who I am and what I do here and the answer is me in the stomach such as poor digestion, drink spilled on the tablecloth, wine, and know nothing and can only resist, there is no return to paradise, hell is the natural habitat, where I live, his back against the wall, my hands working , I've been there, I confess, I forgot to live, why I write.
jamais Je ne passe devant a fetish bois,
a doré Bouddha, sans mexicaine idole joins me
dire
: C'est peut-etre le vrai Dieu.
Charles Baudelaire.
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