white apple

today your mind is a white apple. another fruit of this deadly season. one day the crowds will beg for permission to swallow your poison. la nuit, ma soeur sauvage. the poetry will return to its origins through your eyes or -maybe- in your eyes. till then i will continue to search the word, which will bring all images to an end. because only in the end all our desires will become transparent and the ever-collapsing world will fulfill the celestial testament.

::: gone :::