The erased inscriptions reminding of affairs, half-forgotten features of persons.
I lay not moving on a bed, being afraid to breathe, move, embrace a cup, only to not forget the texts, only to not lose the eyelashes on which so often play orchestras of reason and senselessness.
From new warehouses of the literature, to pictures and dolls, I indefatigably to repeat to myself wished to not fall asleep in revival. And time drips ideas on a frying pan that only the crust was pleasant.
Remain for the night, I am happy with us, dear