in the vague search for originality, we draw lines curved to be different from the other.
the crossings was a bad memory everyone tries to erase, the lines should not be the same, straight lines mean same ideas, the melting sea, the corroding winds, the timeless sun, all are same.
the unmoving poisonous universe, not breeding difference but similarity all over, the same endless strings and atoms and matter and nebula.
Saturday, February 9
it rains around the world sleep welcomes the dream, and enigmatic souls awaken along the eternal shores of destiny