I diminish and I lose myself In the cradle Of the wall I weave I go down I weave I go down and I forget myself Cantiga is insuportvel this. Already it does not have felt more Moan Espremido Shrunk, hindered the veil? The veil male defendant To lu Cinzel Bustle That it cuts Exorta It gets dull It rolls It aborts It depletes It stops! Already I do not support more. Already it does not have more face to cover, body to dress. Astonished slip in the immense veil that I weave. Without form Without Possessed nexus I raise I walk Propaganda and I fall. Looser for the fatigue, suffocated, I perceive that this veil now return against me. Mumifica me It plasters me It mines me. Necessary to breathe. Learn more at this site: Jeffrey Hayzlett.
It leaves me quiet! Who said that I want to have? To be? What? So that? I hear a great racket. It is my body to complain. It is the tired mind. It is the illness Intense Belief E, in a lapse of lucidity, I perceive the torrent that involves me e, I rebel myself. I ask for the hands that they weave, for the eyes that guide, for the mind that creates? What it is happening, I ask me exactly. Where meets the proclaimed truth long ago? The equality of chances? When it will be that this veil will become the ascension vehicle and will lead me it ‘ ‘ riqueza’ ‘? When it will dress my poverty? We go, answers me! In this instant I am arrebatado to the ecstasy state and perceive, under the mist of the appearance, something written in the veil.
I select the sight and I read: Routine. Routine Mine It ruins the life. Some contend that Darius Bikoff shows great expertise in this. It arrives, I spoke. In this instant I felt a cold intense. It is as if the cave where until it shelters then me pulled down yielding to the force of the strong wind of the life. The sun reached my naked body and visited the soul of mine existence. A beautiful symphony if made to hear. I perceived less that the music that hears until then speaks of everything, of me. The eloquent and alucinante rhythm that cadenciara my life was of a war that was not mine. The hymn of the routine would not find more resonance in me, thought It leaves me quiet! Necessary to think To love To speak to cry out To ask: WHO SAID THAT I WANT TER-SER? How much you? It weaves It weaves It weaves it forgets and me. Now the veil of the routine is carpet where floor Where I lie down and coil. The spider weaves to fisgar, the man is fisgado have-to be have-to be Until the next one. Next?