In the love of the old man
he murdered himself and flew away to a place where people are accepted in spite of the madness they have.
The music was all he had to cross that empty road of no civilization and bald memories.
But at the end; the destination was there…a wild valley of pure desolation,
the constant rain…the enveloped mist,
a momentary continuum of lost melancholy.
It’s true that we are all living inside these blunt bubbles and we have been doing things in a way to forget the transcendental reality…
But there is truth in arts in which someone get to complete a lifetime.
Gloom and imputations,
Crisis and profoundness,
The circle is never complete…cause you are being completed everyday by utter incompleteness.

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Photograph: Bob Orsillo.