A life comes to a stop, dry and still air, manifest and illumination, I’m in freedom and in searching wonders that has a stream of meditation, laughing clowns and sadening circus performers.

I’ve written poetry different from how I would speak in person and whenever I do speak, it’s different to thoughts that speak inside. All connected but sounding different. Sparked from isolated darkness and the devil's details. I Won't bother to explain, even if I did, you won’t understand

All poetry is a poor translation from one’s emotions.

Perhaps to the first step to an awakening, is to notice death is coming and that’s always coming for you

When I write, I always end up in a cold abyss, a freezing world, where I’m always alone, despite how many people that love my work.

There’s are infinite amount of paradoxes for us here, perhaps it’s not all for us, they’re just dream-like figures in the wild and unable to be touched. Guilt.

Love is a real killer, it utterly destroys everything you’ve worked towards and devalues everything outside that world between you and your soulmate, rendering it to decay, in dryness and whimpers. And if the love isn’t real. Don’t do it. It will only end up in heartbreak and striking you a certain bitterness, you’ll be unable to shift.

If a man takes on the world, to beat the world, to box it, to fight it, always place at least one grand on the world. The individual will always shiver and frail to the collective