If the lineation wins, I will not pardon myself.
The dots on flesh will glare.
A dummy hurricane will envelop the ruinous body.
Death will stalk and the predators will have a field day.
My own truth cries for an idea of making a complete suicide on table.
Inside the guts, flows a column of skimmed fakes.
Directions break the geometry of sleeping faith.
It was not worth trying.
In mind between the dark and grey, lies the pale of truth.
This perspective is a constant pain.
Where will the thoughts end and the ripples begin?
Arguments have become strange enemies in war of words.