Creation converses. 

I beheld his filthy arms once, procuring the night melody. 

A verse, meaningless and stubborn like an armour. 

His ambience, my ambience transporting the solemn gestures. 

I can’t touch his molecules, can I? 

But I can touch his stomach probably or his draping eyelashes. 

I want to breathe inside his starless hut once, and I want that as a souvenir for this immovable race. 

Brother, woods are calling you as well as a smiling lady’s wet breasts or a branded jeans shop. 

I find no nobility in these words. 

But you keep on leaping and hopping and make this place a space of life. 

Swirls of time is coming. 

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