The last dream I remembered was that with the dying marble moth hovering over my head. She was all dressed up in white velvet, her lips were blood red, her eyes I haven’t keep in mind. And as she calmly breathes in my hope, she whispered me this atrocious secret full of secrets.
Nothing frighten me the most than the memory of the flutter of its wings, the deviant sense of motion, a relentless gaze, the dammed lore of solitary echoes, and its sublime ridiculous beauty that expose my fondest vicinity to empirical suicide.
This atrocity revealed a merger between painful fear and exquisite madness. Since then, I had to find shelter in my imagination far away from these dreams. Secure from everyplace she had decided to live.
Confusion engages an unconscious device that saves me, which erase everything, and made me succeed. But when I can barely remember amorphous lands, my fear marries discomfort. The ugly sentence anxiously reads:
Sterile breasts spilling black milk over your monochrome pupils that shed transparent rainbow tears.
Resentment Restitution.
Copulated Maggots.
Vultury Frenzy.
Prematurial Burial.
Rain’s For Fools.
Our empty hearts are empty.
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