Sunday, April 10, 2011


It's quiet here.
I feel the warmth of overwhelming death on my forehead. To hate it, is impossible. To love it, is improbable.
Nothingness gleams over the cliff of barren thoughts. Sleep, I need some sleep, to sap the blinding thoughtlessness of consumptive dreams ..

And there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.

1 comment:

GoldFish said...

Who'd make art if we were all happy (or dead)?