The sound understanding of madness is equivalent to a sober sip of the best beer. At ease to be under control next to those who naturally take the axis. To the sovereignty of anarchists or to the rebellion of a peaceful heart. So to speak, my irreverence is now built under the reason of a given meaning. A state, therefore, that confers and inspires the wills that do not seek peace, but the essence of insanity. Seeking, perhaps, through the most indigestible pacts, the experimentation of a limit that we don't know if it exists.
Inside a room, as if cloistered by the divided air, I open my eyes in my haste to get out. To travel along with the sounds that are not heard, promoting, in silence, the harmonic break of those who did not come to listen. Calling the generation a strange model, I define love as the fate of those who don't warn. Like the composure of someone who doesn't support himself. Here, without the objective of being a unit or of representing a closed binary, but rather of transposing the association of the quantities that have to come. The community of known or unknown lovers.
I want, therefore, to constitute the range that interferes with the routine of the most disciplined. To bother the sadness of those who don't come out and don't want to come out happy. The price now paid for freedom is that of holding on solely to the instrumental will to act for nothing or everything. Aiming, who knows, as a tool, the subjective perspective of building a self that is not distinguished and not equal. A deadly and fatal composition of an eternal life, subjugated by the near and stupidly improbable end.
On disposable paper, I write my imagined stories on a rainy day and a hot night. The ones that run down the floors, reminding you of a time that doesn't come back. A laugh that is no longer heard and a touch that is now far away. And so, in that intimate certainty of what I don't know, the only supremacy is knowing that what's left of me belongs to the world. And that it's only mine that I lack. In these interferences, getting lost among the found and stolen, I glimpse through the window the sound of what has gone away. Occasionally, the smell also enters of what didn't even bother to come. I cover myself with meekness and a gentle storm to wash away certainties.
With the fear of what can dismember a whole composure embarrassed by the harmony of the reverse, I reiterate, in the word, my maladjustment with a bit of talent that I would like to possess. Rhyming the sounds as someone who seems to produce them, I act only as the regent of an order that is not autonomous and, for that reason alone, still needs me. I dread independence day, as I look forward to it. We know we can't hold, but we love the idea of having them in our arms. To be the owner of the greatest affections and loves. For now, the beginning ends in one more point to, in the sequence, give way to a new foul. After all, it is from gaps that a story is written to make sense.
