The unknown is always
guarded by senseless meaning...

The urge to tell stories,
to tell the story...

Our childhood fades, its dream undone,
and wonder hides from everyone...

The nature of dream
is wakefulness...

The key, is
that there are no keys...

Your smile,
the white queue of musical tone...

They looked down upon him in dirt in derision.
They never saw him they saw themselves...

There is a void inside me because
I want to be more than me...

Between the tangles of all the floggings
skies...

Amongst the stretch and squeeze of the accordion
she and I...

Butterflies hover
over gardens while gardens...

From the futile war
remains tons of mutilated hearts...