While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.
I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?
The night is still waiting.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
Darkness does not age; nothing is always nothing