venerdì 13 agosto 2010


I need to find a shape for my foggy purposes. They cast their shadow on the screen, hit by hidden sunbeams and pierced by the dreams.
Lost in the sounds of the words. I suggest your keeping with you your compass - but where is your north? Guess I've lost mine as well.
The persisting ring of the phone brings me back to my reality, where the milky mist has got into my room.

I've red the story of a guy who cried when a friend of his drunk his pear juice, and I felt the tears come, too.

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