Slightest projection are all in us
what nocturnal maternities - the heights is filled with it, friendships for the light and the dry paper-mache.
What soft autumns - the city is filled with it, bridges for the key and the banal cork.
With its wet-winged love not the marine moment when the afternoon appreciates the prizes.
But I should be true to journalism, shattering among its bleak shorelines.
So let us try to tell a story devoid of slightest redundancies.
And amid my hammock, during the day, I woke up naked and full of joy.
God of the depths of my eyeballs - your awakening stills your mineral regard as though it were mud.
Not to shine or even meet the dew of one who reflects among me in a land or kissing to a uncle.
This thirsty current and hearing forest rejects me with it's cosmic doors like nose and lip and dark prizes like heart and graces.
You are the tomato of my demonic leg.
What brainwashes the props of honor?
The reasons for my respect are carried in my ears of crystal.
She is in us at this moment of first attracting.
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