July 20th, 2014
a trail, for whatever reason, amidst the trees, a forest, a way, neither started nor ended, at some indefinite point, where one, if not moving, may reach places beyond the limits of absolute speed – a train, perhaps, or a route in roundabouts, that creates a center only to have it divided by paths, coming out of nowhere, now-where, everywhere, the downhill ride uphill battle, a serpent, a rabbit, a skeleton, the viaduct, a road, that records blood of those which cross it, also a sweat of those which found happiness, however liquid it was, caressed to utmost fatigue by the suns, vapourising, evaporating, love traveling skywards only to be absolved into interstellar vacuum, a trace, nonetheless, trapped in comets of ice, whose paths scared ancients so much as to set the ones, who knew the way, or at least a part of it, on fire, the devil’s way, the way the bitch walks, signs signifying the lostness in the world, of the world, the stupid marching, those of pious or beaten heart – on their knees, and yet there are ones that never took a step, born on crossroads, remaining there, and it’s impossible to tell their faces – whether they are abysmally joyous or infinitely sad, the wise men open their mouths – one should be able to deduce the way out of their teeth, tongue and movement of cheeks, more so often than not one would just get sucked into the habits of their arteries, formed through years trying to remember – and thus live – the path that took them to certainties at the time seemingly insoluble in the rains that came pouring through the leaves, soaking the woods, flooding all land, everyman for anyway, but a child, who knows nothing of the methods used to the point of abuse to make her lose his idle wonder, wander
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