They are the substance of the world, a weight of silence silhouette...I improvise my world with a pitch of colour spectrum and when I indulge myself into the tiny holes of emptiness, I actually feel the joy. Nature is a pronoun of negligence, or should I regard this as an interpretation of how the me is constructed in front of every any other me.
Brownie sweet, orange road, pinky mania, golden era, love me live, live me love.
I let myself lie down on a soft grassfield where only death comes before live. I stare at the invisible paints I have drawn. I may smile, cheerful leaves.
Send me home, to the only place where I can depart again.
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