The colors, the colors, the colors are stories and spaces. Did you not hear? How to deepen in the spirit of this coldness? Is all this to absence gaze? How amazing is this absence, of these edifices and flowery speech, all of this for the love of absence? O the tender fields, I am blind, I cannot see, the narrator has soft hands. When I wake up in the morning, only sounds of absence, when I see smiles, nothing but faces of absence. When I talk about a dream, trains of absence pierce my ear. O secrets, O strange stories, here are delightful birds, fish, and flowers, oh weird world, when will I end up with you, I hope I know.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 4:46 AM UTC
The colors, the colors, the colors are stories and spaces. Did you not hear? How to deepen in the spirit of this coldness? Is all this to absence gaze? How amazing is this absence, of these edifices and flowery speech, all of this for the love of absence? O the tender fields, I am blind, I cannot see, the narrator has soft hands. When I wake up in the morning, only sounds of absence, when I see smiles, nothing but faces of absence. When I talk about a dream, trains of absence pierce my ear. O secrets, O strange stories, here are delightful birds, fish, and flowers, oh weird world, when will I end up with you, I hope I know.
