Life is a love story with the world.
Who are we talking about in the evening when we go home, on the way that we do not look, as we have seen, as we know it, before putting the key in the lock, to play the familiar click, and bring our bag into the entrance? Its mild form is folded in on itself, and fatigue subsides and settles our shoulders. Who do we think when we lost in our thoughts, and scraps are deposited smiles on our lips, we do not address to anyone, yet they are there, who spend like angels in our silence? The questions fly through the night and silence.
Our life is a love story with the world. Fragments are detached. Sometimes a crumbling old wall, which shelters us from the wind, and against which we rest our tired. Something crumbles. Dreams fall into small fragments, impalpable. Something crumbles under the fingertips. And we roll our ideas in mind, that no one could say, grains of sand beneath our fingers, sometimes they come into our eyes, and a tear comes off, rolling down our cheek, the wind comes in, and takes away our breath, off, off, where we did not even dream of power to transport us lovingly.
Then there will be spaces. Then we open our spaces, we discard the open parenthesis, closed too quickly, we detach the potential to make them exist. They will deploy in the world, and nothing nobody can contradict this momentum, we will bring Ulysses we melt into the possibility of Ulysses. Please
the world (although I do not know how to make these few snippets that will open possibilities, I do not know). Life is a love story with the world to invent.
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