Through a forest of challenges, thought moves and squirms, resisting beguilements; if it endures, it emerges pure.
Beauty is a cheap word, but beauty remains priceless.
To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.
You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.
Digressions are part of harmony, deviations too.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?