silenced death#
point citation #
balad #
french thoughts #
neitheranamea balad poem stinking death to kill, suddenly happened to words thetselves...
Haaaawwwllright !
There !
There there !
No problem to touch this sensitive way of being located somewhere and some shitty where else, it could happens sometimes, to fill the carbure tank of thinking enchantment, evidence strikes then, so, i cut, my words
There !
No point !
Just satisfy, be, in, that, state of positive you know ? yeah, about this shitty shit of ponctuation ? let it be, said some strange thing, mad my mistrike, i try not to be, as i mad was to be ; but in horcrux my words are, in this box i let hard my spinful hate of path to then, crisis in my mind, what, is this grand fanfaron misterised ink part of my soul ? a singular light, a developped art, traders made good to fear, to know, to number ; i was, numbered ; now i'm neither plus nor more, but, i let, the light, the struck, to strike myself from stars to earth, from the heaven of my ice, i seem to be...
There ?
there
are chaos
