The Imagination of Relation
Beautiful eyes. Narcolepsy, but not really.
I just realized that November is no in a smile.
Who is that in the mirror with the silly
and wild hair,
Singularity, or a single point of light?
Questions are without any point.
Here there are four hands, all cold.
Ripping free the valves, turning the faucets,
Watching the faces swim around.
Pounding on walls,
but not too loud.
The imagination of relation is set to drown.
I will shave and get ready to go out.
I will forget everything that was said,
Have a good time feeling