I want to exist in several modes.
The wind on my balcony is not enough to pacify the somniferous cadences of my
own turmoil. Nevertheless, now all is floor. The whole of it in front of me
till dissimulated stairs which seem like a walking and conscious thing coming
to extract from me, to beyond, my own life. What an irony, I laughed, unreasonable
critics of reason... Touch! It is soft; also insubstantial, paradoxical and colossal.
They said, what would be of the greatness without its obscene obstensiveness?
They had some rustic bicycles
used in their intrinsic rides, with imaginary dogs and sudden happiness. I
always had the arrogance, that essence of all which is appreciable; the
megalomania’s principle and of everything that is superior and progressive,
alive and pulsating, terrifying and beautiful, the chaos in its most splendid
form, worthy of a perfect anachronism. Thus, I have been able to dirty all my
clothes without using hands – They were clean and my terror was walking I do
not know where. They called me before the dawn and accused it of having being
involved with the dread of life; rather it than the puritans on their bicycles
in a half done lap and their quintessential easy smiles. A nebulous moralism
grieved our pestilential viscera, but is widely known nevertheless that in
these mornings the sun presents itself as a major general commanding a bright
army charged with the matutinal happiness’ duty.
Infernal window with total
absence of iron in its constitution, loathsomely
diaphanous and clear, that comes to stealthily obfuscate me amid semi-same
walls although was I many, in myself. Tell me: Do the owners of a unilateral
will walk far? At that instant, my volition could not reach a third dimension
as it was not modern either. Resembling gullibility. Too lame and lethargic. I
move through the cosmos in my very own time, I belong here and to all accessible
doors of my tortuous consciousness; where this one may be, by the by?
End of the road. One hundred
seventy four I count now and the door at last. Which me is arriving? Let us
call it ignoble, obnoxious, daft, vile, despicable, wanderer of the lack of my
drunkenness. Windmills! There ought to fall thunders while I dawn out of phase
with my continuity. Mitigated and hardened, I come see valuable views of vainly
vertiginous vortices of volatile personalities which are still my camouflaged
selves in delusion and high on reality; forsaken in the apartment doors.
