Life and death are resizing the scripts of the anonymous while the soul bender patches up the endless snow cloth I've been wearing ever since the thought of escaping the puppeteer granted me another great box with springs and darkness
A smooth war divides my blood cores establishing the uneasy purpose
I've been permanently corrupted and any attempt to reset the language of love begins with me feebly assisting at the redecoration of the scene

Counted in the cloud of freedom among the creations' shapes
being prematurely twisted by the short lights
made thunder-blasts be heard
and each sparkle I could see
lived like a deformity
(of me)