On fiction, because death Mistaken by thoughts again, death comes as an enlightenment to the shores. Depths in the inside of it, longing to it’s more profound cuspid, water needling the end, wrapping the body to it’s never end. They are coming to the eternal lines of tomoroads. All these thoughts mistook as truths come to hint the real, all that appears as matter goes. Revealed is it’s form. Whole from it’s space and therefore so empty of it’s consistency. As it is, without a name, time has crawl it’s marks all over the place. Grasped from this precise moment to make it true, real, here. What once was whole, now it’s empty. Ready to be fill with new live, refugee of organic souls, dead once there conscious eyes. A heart, beaten, once had to stop. Efforts for longing to places it thought it belonged before. Wainting has been so long, vague souvenirs come to moor their extremities, a reminder that the body never finish but in their own ends. Senses confirm a reality made out of it, thoughts that are as heavy as the light that slides into it first. Particles spreed in the neant the gesture could live forever since it’s always on repeat, energy never dies, it only transforms, it’s scattered into the abyss of perceptions, till it comes back as thought, to go on, to stop, to transform, from it’s direction to the horizon. Fool of it’s gravity, don’t take it personally, it’s just waight. Fainting is their energy sole because it touches the light is yours it comes back into it as a land, this that is underneath, holding the finitude of the end of it’s axes from where to point what is no longer here anymore to be source of reference Was there time before it’s birth? Otherness is here as proof of endurance and extend of fear that it might never be alive like this, but in all, there is a bit of it, because it birthed from itself. Anew, frames begin in spaces and times. No one could change it’s course, because it finds it’s beginnings either way. Was it originated? Did you talked about it? It’s creation comes from words. Not ours, not theirs, but ours. In O. A person inside this machine, a design more than a function, an animal in disguise of a human. Virtuoso of it’s own nature alienated by it’s embed parts of their systems those who help them survive at the shore of their enlighten deaths. The to
sea the
will depths
of
hunt it’s
you infinity
back where
where there
you is no
belong pity
but
it’s
own
greed
Amor Luz
for
survivall.