A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog
Castles made of air breath in the vast mountains of my static disease. You may think that you know something that you actually mismanage, but that's how things work for me. All the people, when they go to sleep, they normally wake up in a vicissitude of corrupted thoughts. But for me, this is so different. You really don’t understand, when I say otherwise. But this is my peaceful correlation of soul harmonies, declaring the aggrandizing features of my sensible desires.
But without individual introspection, I prefer to disappear.
The so-called modern world utilizes people with very specific purposes. But I live relatively happy without all the affliction of material inclinations. This morning, when I woke up, the sun seemed to be too comprehensible for me to see. The world and its aggressive patterns are not debatable when we speak the language of its moribund system.