Was it so
expensive to believe so? It were burdens
of hope to end up the circle of life and no other theory could deny it? It
might be great to know it, she says, on the next moment, hour, minute when all
shall spread its sculptured wings and though
it feels like a renewed nightmare crawling into hour’s catastrophic Big Ben.
People
were cursed by mirrors, she would say, searching with a
glance into the chariots of clouds, it will take away her cold thoughts by now. And the story is dead
and gone. She doesn’t know what is it, as if she had ever knew, will you? She
will never die for an damn idea, but she adores mankind to be like her own
flesh dragged on the ground. She cannot speak, she writes on the walls all
round everything she thought of. But she writes, even if she cannot speak . Again
she is staring at the wall asking the dust,
finding up for merciful answers never be gotten . It stirs all your
energy to conceive from all?!Yes and she said it were. She has found another wall to write to, but she cannot
speak at all.I can’t speak, she says. Women are contemporary metaphors,
feathered emotions within words, she
would think. It has never existed a
story. It must be dreadful to know the story behind her eyes. You will
never shriek for it, she says. She was
decided to write a letter to nowhere for thousands of lost hours.Dear hour rampant/running deep
within my …..
To my dearest reader,
These days I am working on new texts, I am hoping you'll enjoy reading this preview.It's all about words all the time, this obssesion 'called words' scorched my emotions apart from glimpses of self-inspired thoughts.
Maude
