No,
I don't hear inanity without light - Is this is me
In a closed storm to my hollow temples, nothing will have ever happened where I always have the same dream.
I can't remember what is before my death.
between me and me. here doesn't admit itself - that kill me.
I am from where my belly must burst the world. is world. there is nothing but a belly swallows itself.
a few times I try to vomit in vain. I may have lost consciousness.
Always reliving my life like a dream I can't remenber precisely, I am still again the actor and the spectator sleepwalker of the same scene, where, assasin and victim, I turn around me, unable to wake up and see myself in the face this murder that reapeat itself for eternity.

There is a cross not to be passed.
 the body is a cross to the heart
 the heart is blood-wood.
before it nails (but who whispers)
hords of foam rush when the tides are coming in, the curtain of the sky is wide open, a cataract corresponding the announcement
 : the exact obviousness, outside the streams of ether.

The eye open to the eye, fixed in a sun without eyelids, a thousand of thousand sun
who has seen it, once in the axis since always doesn't escape.

 It's grave, very grave
(Here) stands always the crucial test that everything is at stake. Eternity waits here for itself as the only stake of impossible incarnation.
 There takes place that there takes place, but what?! What's the story about?
 I cannot believe it
  If I have ever felt anything real.

:It is the very existence of the secret that is the secret. It resounds still from never being heard.
Walking back along the steps remembered that a girl flees, I hear the drumming out of the mournful melody that takes me away, by which cracked harmony calls me back, one similar silhouette that whispers itself, aborted - the unavoidable failure.
 At heart, death
 bursts burst not,
 stretching like a flower.
Cascades of stairs spread as far as life can see. From the bumps against the invisible walls of the maze of existing Stands out the abyss of an enigmatic lock - to cross, oneself.
I regret my soul; her body of lone melancholy is the meaning of being.