by raising hands

The honesty of the weeds of the field follows to the brave explorer at night in the open air. The spirit of the stifled man returns by smelling the grain of freedom. The seeds of vanity are hidden behind the pupils of the followers of fame. We don’t understand it, but our love goes further than a heartbeat with an arrow. We can get rid of the ruins of failure, but the scars of battle are not washed away with the wine of a new morning.

What art is more than the repetition of the common, a mixture of sindescribable meanings recomposed on a golden platter. For whom the birds dance as they fly through the clouds, To whom they dedicate their songs, Because nature is the spitting image of a dream that is reflected in the actions of the simplest beings.

The impossible exists only within defined limits because our reason and dreams are pieces of madness that escape us. With the gas balance to continue working under the exhausting expectations of a world troubled and suspicious of mediocrity. A mediocre world that does not allow them to germinate more than skilled in his style of play. Possessing matter, in addition to a poorly told lie, also requires a clear psyche that can give value to emptiness. The music still echoes in the past of Prisoner of Tomorrow. A melodic sonata of the most perverse imagination, the sweet taste of a promise chained to a lie.

Rotten entrails of a gruesome feast are crumbs which They feed on leeches hidden in bushes. To prefer death to being a slave over mere self-repetition is a soul-bleeding dagger.

Sometimes the trees hide the forest. Sometimes he the forest does not prevent us from seeing the mountain. Sometimes it is the mountains that hide the light that signals the peace brought by the sea breeze. In it, the feathers glide, glide towards the dawn. They are shadows of themselves, reflections that ripple on the sea, waves of passion that destroy conquering ships. Mirrors that paralyze time, photographs of probability, reverse mathematics.

That little i androgynous feeling that occurs when caressing, the regret of leaving, the damage that ‘I love you’ does, but only to you. It’s a medicine, an antidote, it’s a serum, miracle Waste for those who do not have it, a precious treasure for those who already had it, a consolation for those who are its prisoners and a reality for all of us who stand on the edge of the canyon.

Looking at the horizon, a a flicker of despair, a bitter last drink and in the end, it’s just a small taste of hope. There are few who, in a state of greatest estrangement, endure the onslaught of Aeolus’ fury, refusing to fly behind the clouds and burn their fine wings under the imposing power of the sun.

Few, very few, survive the schizophrenic mania for fame and power. The intoxicating taste of caviar, the delicate bubbles of cava, the hypnotic sparks of gold, the pure fantasy of diamonds or the heavy conformity of money are poisonous inhibitors of sanity, turning the most reasonable into yet another supporter of vice.

There is little space left, maybe less. Little place to go, little land to grow. It is necessary to conclude the degradation quickly from, perhaps, the last word.