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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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motto: “and they were dickering in white word for summer
the very split thought of the man that didn’t know how to die with frail voice of the one that died his light towards far away” – Elian Cosima the first day if all the poets of this sawdust felt or ash world died of course the Very Wonderful World would wane some weight a little way too little merely to pass slowly to a dry valley the late the very late some plush unicorn and an imperial mask good for setting the longing in the blue-deformed baulk of the house twisted women in black velvets isolated muses too fierily wenches would write epitaphs continuously and without labour the disgust would embrace in flight grey trams an illogical rhyme would give birth in hard anguishes to 3 diaphanous verses and between them yelling strongly towards the lost nights 1000 and another one of smoky monsters .................................................................................... the second day but not the last dear Mutti I wanted to tell you about the colour of the aging mountains she has the light of the white hair that you let growing hoping that you’ll learn from it the patience (just know that sometimes I draw the earth on sheets of paper just know that sometimes the people become small and they all enter in my wooden box received as a gift from Matei-the antiquarian I think we should put at the world’s door a silver ringer with harsh galling and stern chink so he would call the arousal when one departs or when another enters the upside-down house of our much too hamper soul) but I don’t know anything about the mountains I haven’t written to them for a long time and they forgot me I feel pity and I wish so much to leave with my paper boat with all as far it's the second day without night within the circles and sky an incident runs and there’s no good really none to get her around I’ve ignite a match but got quenched ……………………………………………………. the third and the last day it was like I was in the attic between those boxes full with white-black photos huge birds were coming from nowhere I was saying they are plains you were saying they are some solidified lights I unbound them like some orange slices I wouldn’t even know if all and everything had any sense at all I was dreaming as always of a pair of golden shoes or let’s be serious of the same pair of white sneakers with twine laces I was dreaming that the world was a red small hidden ball in the pocket of the home little dress I was dreaming but it was at noon it was just a scream thrown towards the world’s round shoulders nobody will bring it back ever ……………………………………………………………. the night dear Mutti I don’t know anything about you anymore I think I’ll leave slowly slowly on foot so the road would be as long by morning I’ll arrive don’t forget to let me a light turned on from home translated by Marius Surleac
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