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As pages are scrolling out without boundaries, as birds are flying high. As pictures are moving slowly. Somewhere beyond the invisible screen: the same way I’m flowing, smoothly and regretless.

Led tears dropping down with time. Tremendous pictures — aren’t they visualizations that never come true? Covered with dust, incrusted with memoriam, I’m burning myself inside the invisible protuberances.

Chilled in a deep freeze, wetted with ruptured mosaic thoughts, finally juiced inside the extractor’s can, I’m taking out the remaining horizon. I’m blowing figures, chewing nasty words and crushing stupid sounds inside of them. I need no order any longer.

All I suppose to be is silence of a deep wood at the end of the day. All I suppose to be is to feel myself inside like a never-born child. Should I be brave? No, I shouldn’t. Should I catch the whole rain? Yes, I should.

Brick by brick. Cloud by cloud. Line by line.

Finally it could be me.

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