Known by you and only you, it meows some memories. Some, have flowers' shapes, others, look like diamonds. Some, perfume the dreams, others, drag you in shadows. Some, touch longings' souls, others, search for words' lips. Some, appear out of the blue, others, disappear in whisper. Some, just love humming, others are doing pirouettes. Some, embody your ideal, others tangle your universe. Some have sincere feelings, others, hover sporty in your air. ⋯ And some, and others, jointly, are licking your mind and soul. And some, and others, deal with the spectacle of your being. You're the hero of your smiles. Did you try to sort your wrinkles? They belong to memories. Yours... and only yours... Nobody can access 'em but you... only you, dear friend...

my words have caught the contour of his name, — the space between got set on fire with love, then, i sketched his physical absence with my lungs coupling it with darkness to dance with the light to fill somehow the eternal emptiness which fell...

songs that are elapsing through my verses gives adrenaline excess (subito...) you are caught in ce petit quelque chose just like… or, (just like…)

When suffering becomes such a natural symptom, your tears are not salty anymore, and your eyes no longer give a burning sensation. ⋯ Your best laughing transforms itself into the most discreet, almost invisible smile. ⋯ Your thoughts comport at will, tactfully. ⋯ People recognize you no more. ⋯ And most commonly, the isolation takes over your life's control. ⋯ It seems you only exist, with nobody feeling your existence. ⋯ From time to time, (very, very rarely), you might provoke inside someone a grimace of distaste, something felt like a cold numbness. ⋯ And maybe, because you look through memories so often, you're causing yourself the sensation as if those past events happened yesterday… (basically, you live as if you're in the age time of your twenties…‽ thirties…‽ forties…‽). ⋯ With all that, you're in all your mental faculties. You're watching for some who prefer to change your statute, even if you tell them that's nothing for them to worry about. ⋯ The me

on any side of my universe sits suspended without being unleashed in action, my every intuition «what's like reading a word without having to spell it out?»

nested between spaces of my words, sits in pause, the level of the #9 dream one time is like a standing sentinel, another time is like a lone snowman in all moods is to stir the reader's mind kissed by the whisperer of my visions