WRITINGS FROM THE VOID

Dark Portrait of a world where nobody cares. Cold desert, ghosts. No connection, extra-lightness of being. Pain from living within the absence. Winds and voids resemble social lives. Shallow creatures.

I imagined a symbol and thought it would solve our problems: inverted lines of thoughts. I believe in randomness.
There will be nothing, and there will be something. Voices are only heard at night.

Dark Blue Leaves.

A swimming pool.

A frog captures the insect.

So long (Rest in Peace).

Moon watches, smiling.

The water in the pool is intact.

Words, mysteries abond, vagues unidentified, sytlistic expressions of wanderers. 

I worship your presence when you're close, to me, and ignore you, unconsciously, otherwise.

Moved by passion, we were rethinking our lives and structured our futures, pushing ideas so well established that they really had never seen the light. An invisible undulation of senses and stimuli had gone through and through as much as it had reached our core senses.
This was a start of changes, the unstoppable play of shape and content, like burning over a camp fire. There we were, small and glowing in ourselves, with visions unanticipated. The Mastery of Life wasn't far ahead anymore. We saw them: the transparent arcades of creation surrounding.