I was in the shades, just outside the big brown cottage of stronger smells and softer pillows, something between the grounds and hillsides; the sunset was a volcano of proportions and disjointed violets. I thought what if I were a stone. Somehow the gravel became a chapel of bullets for my soul and it grew whiter and deadly, mortified yet, more like my own self late at night, more violated . The chip-chapping of my skin whilst I wash away the ground, black and not so soft anymore, under my nails, under my chin, everywhere. I have walked the path that leads into the woods. It looks like an olive tree positioned too low and too wide for anyone to break it. Sunsets fell on the landscape, it became clear to me we're nothing but silences made to walk. Violets grew into hushes and unnaturaly produced an atrophy of morphine for the creatures of the upcoming hours. It's a dark, dark, dark planet now and roots feel free but made to listen. Gravel skins my thoughts. I keep scratching my arms, the lines are a map to heartbeats. I found a bird with no wings today. I was in a cornerstone and then you were close; not in my arms or eyes or heartbeats. You were close and distanced.

Hrkanje

Smotanost/plakanje u španskim serijama/

Šalter

-hoš ikada

-mater i dijete

-Titin penzioner

Ženski wc