Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

The First Step... Shall Be To Lose The Way.

Never Mind. The Self Is The Least Of It. Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?

Turn On The Dream You Lived Through The Unwavering Gaze. It Is As You Thought: The Living Burn. In The Floating Days May You Discover Grace.

I Start Off But I Don't Know Where I'm Going; I Try This Avenue And That Avenue, That Turns Out To Be A Dead End, This Is A Dead End, And So On. The Search Takes A Long Time And I Have To Back-track Often.