Like the six moon, white and round, and rises and falls on the sharp line of the back Iron your bed.
I'm the one who can not sleep, or knows and does not want, I'm not alone.
are only a shoe, a footprint only. Step
as the heavy pendulum. Spending every other day in front of your door ajar, and lush photographs, posters and forever all'uniposca. You
dawn.
In the thirty-degree summer nights seem faded on that bed to the nearest well-studied.
And your hair looking for something under the pillow.
And between the shoulder and neck you sleep a half-toned shadows.
World first in the world. What
alive. Complete
but suited to continue to continue to continue forever. Pangea
Full body plan: fight and argue on your coasts azure blue waves of cotton, slow but stubborn, made to dig, to reconsider it at night.
bite dark currents of life, eroding inches of flesh, which he pretends to forget the swell on your thighs young, brown, you do not know yet overlap, and keep apart when you're sitting.
time of your time is running out. Start
drift carefree you away: it caverai backbone on which to take most of the sun and cold, it caverai subduction zones good for pretending to have forgotten, it caverai Pillars of Hercules and your only way of growing melancholy and stay evil.
time of your time is running out. The
beat my footsteps in the hallway. The tears that choke the throat of the hourglass on my bedside table.
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