The corrupted truth

Already by your mouth. Long ago for. Put exactly. The corrupted truth. with whom you come across. Feeling strange. Below the obvious reality. There are only chunks. Open body. Speaking of silence that is not known. From your tip. Of fresh brains. Of course from memory with its fresh souvenirs on the counters of the public markets. To the ventilation of the wings of insects. They bring back memories of their mortal journeys on their claws and hairs on their feet. They were weird. In their brief agitated bodies like constant lightning bolts whose vibrations make natural symphonies imperceptible.

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