From the mother of lies. Without giving rise to The lie cries.

 In the possible aspiration of all the holes through the emptiness of which the body falls diluted without limits. About when when. Eyes narrow. Before seeing it. Eyes lying on the tree branches. Eyes don't make noise. Only looks make noise. The look takes foot in everything. Spreading by moisture in the air. Sometimes collapsed word. Bodiless look. No hollow eyes. Beyond the mud of the street when lies invade it. There lies dotting the walls. Overflowing the collective underground drains of all the streets. And the rivers. And the oceans. And the sea. From the mother of lies. In the spontaneous failure; before the emergence of life. Without giving rise to The lie cries.