i have to admit it. nothing i wrote was real. i just listened, then my fingers typed mechanically in a rush what i remembered. i don’t really write. i just translate sounds and colours. it’s kinda like music.
i have to admit it. nothing i wrote was real. i just copied. every word has a sens, used, breathless. every sentence is a mix, and time is just a place slipping between my hands to an evident restart.
i have to admit it. nothing of what you are is real. nothing that you live. nothing that we say and see and understand and touch and judge and love. You, us, me, i, speak the same voice. distance notion exists only for THEM.