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Hook your wagon to a star (RWE) or Lumbricus

Wandering in the heart of the night, the accident of providence we like a capsized boat against the current constantly pumped into the whirlpool of our easements. Me crashing on the shore, I before this blog as a lifeline to send this message like a bottle in an ocean of unfathomable alienation.
. Yes
comrades ... Hope is not dead. I still believe in this light, this for each day that we stop at.
.
For now, it eludes us. But it does not matter.
.
Tomorrow we will run faster, we will extend the arms further ... and a beautiful morning ....
.
And before I drown in the abyss of a world indifferent to the vicissitudes of our fellows, I look through the clouds this star, which in the cold night, shine and tell us to continue the fight ....

... FYI, our star is red.

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Christmas

We say it's bereavement.
That's over now, and it was possible, in fact, finish, not to remain trapped in the absence of an end-on threshold-haunted by ghosts.
His dreams have taken soft colors and warm where she gets caught, rocked the night there as a calming, something that reassures, though probably nothing has really changed except the removal pictures, them -wracking.
And then one day as if suddenly rupture, initially imperceptible, and it would last another day. In the house there as a diffuse, almost a very light and sweet fragrance filing its trace in the atmosphere.
Perhaps also the history of chocolates, books and dresses, you never know. It seems that everything ends up kissing, united by the same feeling as in red-red and deep calm.

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The sleeper

They all speak of his desire to sleep.

They all have something of sleep, lack doubtless this desire, sliding on their faces, their eyes drained of insomnia.

He said the desire to sleep where the years to come, already sunk. The passage of time in the night so long as an envelope dropped behind you-drowned, time is the floating of dreamless sleep, we say so often dark and deep.

he said, and one brother. Already he was almost asleep and you do not know, sleep. He wants more. Absorbed in sleep until it disappeared, becoming, at night or the abyss. He is probably asleep, or his desire, the brother. He said it would be almost forgotten, until no longer even know it There was a day of memories, that sort of need to remember, as if it was not already dead.

In the night the world was suspended, arrested on himself, and he got lost in the dark that nothing can disturb,-the-absence. The brother's absence a little face. The look that gets lost, strayed too far so that we can re-enter.

Sometimes he sees at night and it penetrates. The night has not married her.

He says again, let me sleep. He is the brother who aspires to disappear.

The other, already is, he always hits the night. He lives, he die-to sleep, yet he who does not know sleep. He waits until the days constantly recur and blend. It lets them disappear. He lives in the passage of time.

The memory ran out, dried out, as a relic that eventually reach the land where craquèlent debris of a tomb. His face

killed in silence.

It is itself the absence and oblivion.