Red Dawn, you said from the beginning, since the great anger by which all began. Red dawn, static, reduced gradually to this tiny hole glittering, persistent, memory and present prohibited.
And so far, so far advanced by then, more and more away, you will see better and better. You still in the sensitive spot where you t'adosses a hill, legs stretched out before thee, the refuge of an acre of ice. You would understand distance. And whenever it seems you enter an element, or even several assembled, something screams and dies as not to understand that power. And a heart full mouth, the only refusal whose decision you notice, that is whining.
You feel it. As you feel your body have already rotten so many times, and unwashed, and always have rotten again, and smell it worse as expected that continues with the worst that stretches far further, too large, no circumstance, with the endless hordes of stunning horses which successively cover and discover the empire wet colors unstable.
Since when have you there. Slumped. With everything to mask the sinister bliss of being hit from across the world through this tiny glimmer that you be dependent as a happy spell. With the conquest of having supported the view from the beginning. And exhaustion of having lived. Can you imagine.
It does not get tired of having market. To have fought. To have spoken. High voice. On drinking and rebuted. To have enjoyed in bed without an address to the number drowned. To have thrown to the winds of joy naked, revolts without grain, slogans and poppies whole days wandering on the docks with the company that bird ironic.
It does not get tired of being left without return. To have to leave the fire barbarian who was gasping on her bed disfigured. To have been much trampled in first with a fist stubborn sparks fly and concealed. To have had the brambles. The inevitable unconsciousness. Other transformations. For closets closed learning. For curiosities sincere or deceitful. The sleepwalkers shells. It does not get tired of being dropped, of course. To have loved. To have betrayed. To have hated. To have been similar. Or singular. Mater for being in the mirror, cowardly, selfish, cheater. To have played. To have lost. Or won, sometimes. To have climbed the mountain and the summit, to have empty hope in the next to fill.
It does not get tired of losing. Searching. To search. To rob. Questioning. Neither of nothingness that mocks. We can still gorge on bright nails, dead roses, razor blades, anything that can scratch the throat in his response to his grin, to hear him gurgle as a siphon adjustment.
It does not get tired of surrendering. Or abandon. Abandonment. Remember : He hath given his hand and pressed against him. He said nothing and left you nothing to say. It helped you to sleep. He guided you through. He allowed it to take you, they bite you, they bleed you, lick you, and you do the same too. " It enabled you see the invisible. The soul of the tree and stone and ridicule unspeakable death of his coffin dressed in desert. It allowed you to learn the call of the animal which has not yet come. The sound of water amid a tumultuous sea of sand. The sound of fire in your hand burned. The complaint of your little bow on your Curve spine. He hath even learned some things that you do not know and whose only knowledge is to preserve the fatal secret.
It does not get tired of having felt the infinite. Where, who knows how to party fatally. Swimming blindly in books timeless. To fetch under legendary temples. To knock common sense falsified in maddening maze. Just maddening. Break screens to hydra properties. To flee. Bypass. Back. To turn away. To find virusses by an arcane beauty insoluble. Wear it like a wart or like a charm once again become anonymous.
It does not get tired of having angle under the passenger. Under the stealth. The inconsistent. To have endured mind if dusty days. To have suffered so much distortion of the distant cry from the bedroom window, and some noisy halls. Probably a few bits of memory. Or faces off. Celebrations faded. Houses. Roads. Travel. And some warm body to which you wanted t'arrimer more than any other.
One never tires that have gone nowhere. What
be going nowhere. And from nowhere, to be less and less. From
be reduced to this tiny light scarlet sizzles while there. Witnessed a small gray darkness. At the antipode of ice breakup in skiffs whose funerary face the option of rocking tide, and then away from each other.
Red Dawn. Red decoy. Poor little eye blood, petrified, bounded on the other end of the trail, and who never gets up to give birth. Quinquet stumbled whose punch without moving and you continue until you reach its respect for t'effleurer uneventful.
One never tires that have gone nowhere. Yes. Unique
horizon produce tides impassive to the mirage of a soft stay of hypothesis shrunk the territory of a drifting raft. A garden floating between the waves. A residual property. Little to pace to record the progression of numbness. Enough to occupy little bulky to liquidate. The stacks of departure and return dried. Orphans of you. Armchairs divorced. Boxes of books. The vintage knickknacks. The castles of maps. Launch ramps. Drinkers of rainwater. The agora and costumes.
Since you have yielded to the deception and raw deceive your blade with a piece of hell. Orpheus is unfortunate that both returned to ensure the evil eye does not disappear, it has been itself into stone. You turn into a human puppet, bloodless, the eyes prisoners, searching tirelessly, on your block to see the glowing tip you designate until the end like a clock that did not happen. One day removed from the calendar. A trajectory lifeless. A line charge of various activities.
Perhaps thou wilt, a time rehashing episodes, finding that there was a goal, a goal. A project. The worst is when you realize it's not about that. Go here, do not designate a place, a finish line, a completion, a house, a child, not more of a work or other success that order. Go means a state of self that grows. Which both lightens and thickens. Who lives in the flesh and the flesh off, either. Is to drink and sweat to write while walking. Is sleep talking. To think less of himself. It's forgotten more than the other. It agree to meet without the inexplicable intrigue to make an ornament for a response at best useless and at worst final. It's no longer belong to themselves as superfluous. Do not be for himself, wait and see. Since we're doomed to be free, at one time or another, it's going to learn to work a choice.
Fear not, when fatigue sufficiently devoured thee, thou shalt have no choice. There you must remain a lot of illusions. The dirty little pearl of blood dangling on the horizon where you came from will remain visible for some time. When you do see the more you will understand what is most trivial to understand. And if you knew them, then it is possible that you pray for the whim of endless hordes of stunning horses or magnanimous.
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