the moths on the backs of my hands will not answer me; they sit mute and flutter at the traffic. once again, I've made the wrong decision: whose idea was it, to come here and wait for him, to run a waterfull over the chairs and tables to let him see the desperation, the dark-blood… Continue reading poem: love or lust? saint or whore?
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 