March 27th, 2014

Leave the pupil of chaos for some other place.
As of now, you are lying on the short green grass. It’s not established whether it’s late autumn or middle of the spring. You lie almost powerless, weightless and it’s insignificant to decide whether you are dying or on the threshold of birth.
While powerless, you feel sure and tender force of the transparent heavens – played through by bug feet passing on your skin.
In the noisy silence of early night or early morning you let your voice bypass the laws of language and follow the miniscule truth of being neither here, nor there. Directionless, right where.
It would be of dubious intent to try and decipher your moans, to prescribe your joy some nouns.
At times when your heart gets arrested, you lose the measure of your surroundings – the under or above the earth.
And so you travel, motionless, while the bug crossing your lips basks in the light of burning stars.

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