crickets using a macro lens

• rain filled the face of the window near the face. at night, it could be that, in a dream spilled over to the planet, you find someone carrying a torch, whose body is covered with moss between buildings and fragile apartments. like a lamp in the middle of a mist, he runs away. rain in front of your eyes turn off the torch. everything will be gone if you wake up.

a broken mirror in his room. give him coffee. after that, maybe you can watch the other rain is more humid than the tundra garden.

now he is busy looking at the flowers, then imagine what happens after the little flower sinks and loses its presence on the planet. he drew it in the window, not on paper, but in the clear glass, and talked to himself; maybe me, funny too. the milk has not lost its white color.

out there, the rain floats and falls among the naked, while he hears his own voice tapping the mirror, throwing up a lot of memories. sick months, sleeping confused looking for a room.