Those who translate the language of time

Crap

And for believing in you, in love, I hope; as the wet wings of the butterfly wait. They spread out in their secret metamorphosis. It is not blue light. Nor liquid light. Who makes believe in the shining day. Day tricks. He never gives in to fatigue. He returns to the center of his place. How many times does time count? In his space lips found in the remains of the meat. Those who translate the language of time.