Indifferent, slow-blooded spirit, in the ingratiating thoughts that are being judged,
The minds that circumscribe their perceptionlessness in their destined bad choises,
Isn’t it the mere ego that knocks itself over and bears it again?
The sole piece of a small model of God,
Series of reasoning on the concept of exception,
Has already abandoned the nuclear reality of our world.
A process that is lived as a libertarian fidgeting oriented towards establishing a consciousness;
An imaginary slavery that moves from tribal deposits to self-consciousness under the name of deduction.
Its history is determined by a right movement among the bending thoughts,
With which we can move our joints for the last time.
Alas, it is only what you think you can imagine from the depths;
Till the concave gains transparency.
Dreams that are covered with dust, piles of bone, bee hives in the skulls...
Designs of grave that are contemplated by an indefinitely-moving God,
Which end with a death shriek of a mask that split our hearts,
As if a gross of photographs taken on our perceptionlessness.
I don’t feel like tasting it.
For the sake of learning the mysteries of the century; that are kept in minds secretly.
Now it is time to go out to the soft sunlight;
It comes from the depths of a mindlessly forsaken and alien river so that it will tinkle the universe;
For this indifferent object that rummages the unreal.
Like a portrait of a universe, that questions the universe on universe,
In each if its curve, the commands of the interior sounds echos:
“How does this universe that is covered with spider webs constantly tumble while it has only one spiritual power?”
Sun melts in the water for the yet blinded irrationalist.
But, a gasply pain is slowly gnawing our thoughts,
In our breathless insomnia that we live and keep on extending.
Like the agony of a lizard in the form of God.
While seeking the mysteries in the expressionless gazes, to be able to dive into the depths of someone else’s lenses.
Close your eyes, now we should get lost in the darkness of images that flows into our eyes.
The universe that watches its own essence underneath the allegory curtain and becomes the victim of a wov;
Aren’t these yet an imaginery image of slavery that we seek in the black and white photos their glowing line?
Aren’t these yet a country of eyes that gulps everything down?
Crash the crust of your eyes, tear them apart.
Get buried in your own flesh; in which you were drown without succeeding to ingratiate.
The mirrors that know who we are, that can spread wax from molten bodies.
With all its might, reflection attempts to render itself synonymous with its existence.
But the landscape gets blurry.
Spirit, now quickly lets itself loose.