It's not always crying or the crazy singing of the elegant

 The lines you drew with the index of the intent. Before vanishing, he had spent infinite years in the school from which he left, without excuse, a millennial. Suddenly, manual laborer of useless words, minor slave of his magic, flying bird in the desert of phonemes, lost in the goodness of the night, kind lady, thief of the productive hours that he grinds with ferocious jaws for the benefit of the body. meat rest. Earlier days passed aboard the dreams. In boats, guided by the intentions of the words. With the deluded hope of placating the field of the sea. Sea morph ability. From the sea to love as it is sailed in phonetic enjoyment of sailing. The shadow sail moves. The bare stone is shown. The look already knows what it looks at. Dying the facts ended the rage of the enjoyment of illusions. As a minor he hid behind dissatisfaction, in the foam of the mutation of words, road to the sea, island semaphore. Only at the beginning of the sea is the farming of the voice ignored. The voice and the words fall into the spell of their own redundant selves, in the moon street, where it never hides. Or in the jungle, the crazy song of the elegant. It's not always crying. The cry of the elephant.

Write en miroir. Palimpseste sur painting. Mirror Sub-Irrealism. Random intratextuality.