tramp

boredom tastes like carious streets and fences with rusty flowers and houses from behind which windows words are afraid to show themselves, because they don’t want their bitter-sweet shapes, yellowing corners of voice, to be judged. but sounds don’t let themselves killed that easily, they don’t let themselves be buried under the line of cracks … Continue reading

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pointlessness

my pen slumbers on the notebook, my shoelaces snooze, my windows yawn excruciatingly, even the sparrows are bored with the staccato of the incessant drizzle – clouds mocking the soil, diluting it patiently and turning it into a thinner (by the day) raw material for god’s workshop. my gaze, wrinkled because of the constant damp, … Continue reading

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