false prismic patterns falling apart through breaking sunlight structures. my hair and my hands. there was a dream before. and i forgot it.
what it is about writing alone on a very windy hill and so on? we just looked so straight and so on. and yet you said:"well what is it all about?" (and so on). me, smiling, whishing is was summer again...
muses all around but us sitting in the small room
neverending stories prismic patterns
rather sharing the golden vehicle with a nobody than watching you standing, turning around your own axis
my breath is turning to a barking vision
another silence and twinkling, surfaces of water and dreams in ode to gaston bachelard and all our ancestors. why still hiding?
oh dear, why not talking for now and ever about what might have happened if there were what we would wish it would be