Upon my heart—
the diary...

Surfaces appear
in the daylight but insides...

We fear the death's pain
otherwise we never could...

All the world's praising
can't put an ointment on the...

In the free markets
heart is the most bankrupting...

Like a drowning man holding on to his only...
our remaining time is our last hope...

The one Indian
left from all the chiefs is the...

The rainbows bridge
from the branches of your appetence...

Now is the point that
the past and prospect fasten...

They crucify you
upon the uneven scales...

We are Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot,
the “Waiting for the Anti-Christ” deluxe...

The morning dew of your feelings,
the lucidness...