As if life is just an awakening dream closer to nightmare,
and death is a permanent hibernation, a reality.


As if, the death, the stillness, the non-being, the not being, were all just the first absolute abstraction being.
lonely since the beginning,
for millions of years,
in a dark prison will explode shortly, because of the imagination’s intensity,
thus, the whole existence is just the fantasies of loneliness lived by nothingness.


As if poetry is not recited, not heard, but read by the heart, by the self, without a sound.
because the sound is companionable,
while poetry, even the whole art, is perhaps a dreariness,
the dreariness of that hidden extended touch between the self with the nothingness’s navel.

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