(old one)
They conspired against songs...

It was in the black and white of his magic
that all my childhood turned into the colour...

how pretty you are in the vanity mirror
is how the mirror...

The awe
of wrinkles...

Everything is running,
seemingly towards somewhere...

If you kill the messenger
The message forever...

Where has the butterfly winged?
Where has the flower gone...

God is dead,
thus Zarathustra said...

To P&Q
Loneliness...

They do not give us ruler to draw the perfect...
We have to draw with our naked hands...

The penumbra of Illumination.
The echo of birds’ footsteps in silence...

You the killer of my father.
You the pain...