The time we share is like a field flower in a city,
so special and so rare.
Even if we talk for hours,
and send messages resembling essays.
This time makes me better.
Better as a sunrise of the next day.
Everything is connected,
but our connection is more precious.
It is above our lives, bodies and characters,
it is eternal.

The ink flows on the paper
like I flow through my days.
Each second the part of me dies
with each drop of ink that dries.
Each second a new drop comes to life
and resurrects my mind.
In this cycle of life and death I feel at home.
It calls my name if I decide to stay the same.
A living sentences written in ink,
that is what we are.