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.