I can't really conclude these paragram of holy thoughts and memories. opium tabs ahead, it always and always really came at the wrong moment. or is it just me? no it's not. because tricks are delusively detoxicating. pandemonium orders of days to minutes, and amnesia has became one layer of my limbo. sometimes I could only recall one thing; be it in my walks at the beach, while poking dead leaves with sticks, or while sipping my coffee looking upon torn pages of an old book, there will only be -Death. and out of a pigment, just at the the brief edge of it all, God, somehow, does exist.
ps: you're just a forgotten syllable of that last memoir. the very last one. just like Neruda's dernière strophe of "Tonight I can write the saddest lines".
x
