On the threshold outside, I took a picture with a unicorn foll | Thoughts Hub

On the threshold outside, I took a picture with a unicorn following a cloud that crossed my trunk, boredom was suckling its milk and peeling the bark of speech with its laughter. Let us not occupy ourselves while waiting for us to make the endings. This meaning is corrupt under a sun that has become obsolete, so it has become obsolete, to worn out.

Thus, the subject presents his goods in the market of depressed conditions, where the passages are crowded with certainty, the certainty of boredom mixed with the scent of the vanity of the unemployed of dreaming, and the voices of those rushing to buy plastic grains, plastic joys, plastic homelands, and plastic kindness. The cunning continually appears in swarms of storks, preparing wings for the shadows, clouds guiding in the misleading climate to the sources of its pleasures, to rain down a merciful wandering.

I was there, forgetting my shadow sleeping in the open, waiting for the possibilities that the sun would turn into a square shape or explode until the air is an outright traitor. I heard someone say this, and he was a poet. He is an outspoken traitor who teaches the wind to treachery every time. He draws his stupor from the stupor of the noon, and from a station where whiteness is not accustomed to standing, where the rider of the evening chariot drawn by the horses of nostalgia passes, he takes you to the peaks of sobs of ecstasy.

Oh prophecy of a bastard said from the archipelago of the lust of the flesh to the virgin, he came all at once, glowing through the alleys of history. In it, it is shorter than the prayer for rain, we did not need joy, except that the room opens its windows on the windows in which death does not fail the blue of the sky, while astonishment locks time in the language of delirium.

I accommodate the mood of strange mornings and return during the day to its evenings safely now; a suburb widened for a song whose notes were torn by the wind and the sorrows of those possessed by the love of knowledge were rescheduled. We were more than three and less than two, we were running in the music and pulling the buttons of the narrow earth when we crossed the road leading to the dialogue of chairs in a tavern: the sorrows of drunkards are its doors, we were counting the buttons of the place and making mistakes.

So we cry and light a candle over an idea preoccupied with dismantling Zarathustra's chaos. All we have in the account are emotional debts that we will pay off in one go. The edges extend for a visa-free stay. We needed a cobbler's hat and the expertise of a nail, so that we would put on the ground the thick shoes of absence and run to a destination that would dry its emptiness from the sweat of the passers-by, just as a reminder.