Where the days strip down to the last wave and I want to say what’s unraveling the inside of flower engines…
All the journeys start at creation and end at being too much abstract at the face of unforgiving oblivion.
The scathing nights, the deep nights,
the flow of water,
the barrage of words…
Men at solitude in absolute obsession.
I know there is a time when I must run and hide behind my own shadow to pretend that I have poems rotting inside me.
This giant death is like a rhythm of camouflaged seagull…
it sits on my sail and watches with pungent eyes.
I wish I could be a result of a civilization but in truth it has always been the result of scattering segregation for me.
And being in the middle, not being able to put thoughts in automation has been marvellous…
I see the trees touch the moon and the incessant current brings the ashes of everything that is not present.

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Photograph: Gabriella Totyik.