In my home, how much time did pass and the old dust long time ago has settled. Around and walking through this house, no life. Wat once was, it all come to pass, and now wat has left is absence. Of wat has been and wat should have been, nothingness remains, unspoken ruins of an old order lied forth on soft ground, comfortably, undisturbed. On this ruins should be the monument built, to happiness and to live a long life, in form of an old god in a human form. As to show us through her body the meaning to shine through the rabble like a pearl. Through destroyed, annihilated structure, from a form that once has subjected space to be useful and devolved into wild dust and rocks, should be a monument be brought forth as for the living human spirit. And in this spirit we will celebrate our own nature. In her body will meaning be born, on this ruins her body will stand. Like a flower in the fields
Or nothing. How can there be, if nothing. Blank space, meaningless just as any white blank. The heart sinks low, and nothing makes sense. Going from from there and to there, looking at the natural beauty all around, colorful picture of life and not being able to apprehend it. It is there, but it reminds of wat is not there instead. Ah, remember back then, when we run and youve lost your pearl bracelet? You had one with some rocks and fakes but in the centre real pearl. And we looked for it, come forward and around, and nothing. And where you are? Ran away mysteriously, like a seamen from a ship, and no one heard of since
Only lingering sound remains. During the night, wind carries a spirit of you, vocalizing the call for me to locate you. Each time, nothing. First it was in the rooms below then it was above. Tingling sound, and I stood up, I ran and I wanted to say something but I slipped and through a squeaky loud voice I babbled gibberish and then I were at the place and in tears I returned back from where I came from. I'm losing the thread of wat is real, like a rotten ball of yarn. I dont know if it is real, the signal of you, or the feeling dat I have in me of pure desolate space, below the surface, under ths rock and all cold. Maybe I made it up just to feel bad and before dat the fountain of life spring like blood through the arteries. I dont know this, no, I dont want to know this
In this melodrama is only me. No one else, all the cast has resigned and ran away in quiet terror. Not a whisper be around here, in this theater, and only I
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