The Name of This

　　　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.