butterflies

let us meet in some place less fancy. in a hotel on the edge of town. on the horizon of an expectation.

… wait for the landscape to give us its autograph

the story will be told by a madman. it will be an old, simple tale.

"i could be dead now. but i am not"

in case you exist take a picture of me

i am not here to write but to vomit butterflies

when you awoke everything had been broken. you tried to close your eyes again but the light was stronger.

the day has its tenderness unknown to the night

the arrow will reach you in time you will part with time. the hotel room is hazy. no-one is allowed in, no-one is allowed out. the cops will be here soon. there is no mirror to apologize too.

… wait for the dusk to give you its scripture

a shy knock on the door. then the infinite silence prevails. the room is full of butterflies.

wake

::: pattern  :::