Espousing the melancholy of ancient symbols, I would have freed myself.
We define only out of despair, we must have a formula... to give a facade tot he void.
I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
A book has to dig through the wounds, more, it has cause a new one, a book it has to be dangerous.
Tears do not burn except in solitude.