There's a gap between what I fear and what I think to fear; there's a night, sure, between those tiny things
Because to fear is to live, as the leaf in the burning forest still breathing, fearing not the death, but leaving the living
I do not fear the death I just fear the night falling over my sholder, my head; my integrity what it means being me
I fear those things I'm not certain of (as the rest of living things I think) But scarier is to know that we truely do not know the certainty of all the things we say we know
And of all those nocturnal dreads there are a few that keep me awake waiting for an answer that will never come as the lost remembrance of an ancient love as the farther forefather of a forgotten folk as the man watching through my window in a windy storm passing by the city
There's a lot of dreads at the midnight that keep me awake thinking about things that I should not but I think all the condamned are bound to write about nightmares and imaginariums that does not belong to us but yet, they're ours to transform
And maybe one day the dreads will go far away from our city, as the storm maybe one day we will burn as the leaf and then we will stop fearing what we do not really know