Love is a clash of lightnings

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.

Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

Who hasn't sharpened the edge of his soul? When, just as our eyes are opened, we see hate, and just after learning to walk, we are tripped, and just for wanting to love, we are hated, and for no more than touching, we are hurt, which of us hasn't started to arm himself, to make himself sharp, somehow, like a knife, to pay back the hurt?