Stay with the edge of the circumference

 Faith, I suppose, without love, without life, instinct remains in the sculpted time of the leaves of the wooden windows, wet with papier-mâché, seem like old papyri of old messages, stained, then that part of love that breaks us eats us through ferocious cannibalism. of loneliness alone with raw flesh they would like to give life through the porous skin to keep the song of the circumference