Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.
The farther away, the closer the home becomes.
Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.
Every scent is the sun's scent.
From what you didn’t say, lies that you did say.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?