Winter days seems so wonderfully preordained when you have no sadness in your soul. Permanent sadness is the relief for these gray days of apathy, though the thoughts prompted by this soft existence always remind me that life has a meaning.
No life is spared in these volcano cities of beautiful lies. No life was left beyond these unmerciful enigmas of charming omnipotence gracefully healed by smiles under the sun.
Tired and gone and left for good, we pass by the ghostly cathedral of a madness we cannot figure it out. All that we can find here are endless benevolence restrained over a sadness no one will ever believe. But the great news about it mainly maintains for a while the ephemeral sensation that those angry days are gone for good now. No good reason, but all that I have left was a Mediterranean skull over a clock.
The stream of people mercilessly crying an agonizing comprehension totally worthless of the destruction of their minds would make me a rude person. Cruelty sold for mostly fake abusive answers are no longer what I expect. I have been watching something real, I have been expecting some empty streets in the dark waves of my emotional cities. To my instinct of self-preservation, razor blades and brilliant skylights and empty houses no longer fall from my inveterate insanity centers.
Standardized to nothing, a huge and great ocean of hostility. Sometimes my surreal void of meaningful despair and disturbances gets down. Tonight this empty space will hardly seek any form of vengeance. No, I’m not into this form of life to see a wonderful and exclusive ordeal of stupidity.
Writing the day away, life sometimes will be forbidden to coexist with evolutionary patterns. Sometimes I wonder, when I write the day away, about the worst and most relentless sickness. This is the end of a very difficult and exponentially exhaustive personal darkness falling over a hard truth, night and day.
If I can go to faraway places, I wonder what certainties will be healed for the easiest path. This constant state of impatience searches so prematurely for dark days; nobody knows what this battle of empty shadows will do to the essence of our souls, but I can always wonder. In the end, especially in the winter days, life will always be downplayed. And all of you, merciful people, will carry on the streets of misery the unforgettable scream of men that shall never live.
Today the earth is black. Thoughts of miraculous falls makes tomorrow so much better (and less malevolent). The longer nights will never be that easy. But, in the end, I know, I will always have the mysteriously deep black rain falling over me.