Saturday, July 07, 2007
Sleep fell before the blunt thought of progression. Feelings dead, eyes turned out to see the invincible part of the side, every turn opens the gate to the dawn without the image of tomorrow. The dead is asleep and breathing as the essence molds the power of decaying the mind. Over there, the infinity got burned.
The spirit.
Sounds of dead plops from a lady passing through the largest museum of enlightenment, but still feel unchanged and idle. Looking for something that held the future of the rains a story seemed to interest the melody of walk and stopped. It appeared to be a park with everything and a shiny portrait of flying bumblebees and daffodils, paint of salmon is undesireably dead.
The heart.
The oils of the eastern breath moistens the cruel catastrophe. Motionless breathe of the wild prisoner of faith awaits the eventful escape of the time traveling pests. Hiding from the bars made of silk, lock and lies became aggressive and overprotective from the drama of exaggeration. Nothing helped as it went wrinkled and painful.
The body.
Under the trees of parodies, bare becoming of a little essential presented the self in a threatening way of singing. The lying master pretends to prefer the cliche and marks it as a secret to the world of innocence in disgust. The control within the control of a small pebble was thrown on a dense lake. The pebble jumped and rolled to the other side without touching another element in the world.
The humanity.
The cry of the flags salutes the air from nowhere direction. The water gutters in improper administration. Verdict arrives with the past judgment. Curving blinds to the nature as the start applauds of darkness, overused from being to needing to wanting and nothing. What is the truth?
The earth.
Consciousness of the bad fortuneteller admits the revolving flakes of snow in the hanging prideful summer. Swinging the desires for the unflattering deeds of the path the sharps went feeble. The perfect survival from the melody of deep cognition crushing the loggia of perpetual silence. The revelation arrives.
The music.
Feathers from the white suit of a praying man flew, scattering from the stairs doing down possessing myriad doors. As the being-becoming found the sleeping horn of despair, the box of flew to the desires of the gravity reaching the place of objectivity remains.
The life.
Life went down, life went scarred. Then lights went on.
Labels: The Self to the Art
Erika Ruiz
