The puddle always individuates itself against the...
even the rain constantly increases the puddle...

No acceleration in the falling speed
of a feather oscillating...

What have we become
how palpable...

The timbre of a crying dog burning in the...
unpleasant like unknown...

Birds are as free as
they are trapped in between the...

When you stroke the harps of these feelings
you do not know your fingers...

- How far should I go before I arrive?
- All the way...

We photograph a flower
paint it, versify it, turn it to a piece of art...

Death is what my hands are searching in my...
Death is a floating object...

Sometimes I can hear
tempests' wails unfold in words...

The bright blade of truth
I draw from the sword sheath of...

The respite is shortening
like my hair in the barber shop...