I feel I must write. That order is not cerebral, but metaphysics, ancient and intact in the mandate of my blood. Each passing day, many doors will not open without the mantra recorded on paper or in the drive liquid light of my screen.
That depends on each destination as a formidable string of omens, the mine holds the irreducible string message, sacred magic invocations, the unexpected explosion of words.
feel the tingling in my hands, I fling the fateful attacks of thoughts to the indignity days, but the light of destiny prevails. The ink forgotten, as symbolic stimulus, increases in my dreams the noble commitment ... and I am copying, gesture Benedictine, thousands of manuscripts in leaves gnawed and neglected, in the dim light of what was.
centuries ago (or perhaps moments ago and do not know, maybe in a text message in the gesture of a transient controller through the window, or hidden revelations in my child's smile) received from the Knowing the condition of consciousness Sleepless in order to tell what the moon in its empty eye projects only to those who see through my eyelids. Such a huge
Damn can only be a gift from God.
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