If I can only make you think..
in a way you never thought before..
Letters are not letters because they dream. There is something that barely marks each one, like a person's hands. These letters are not signs of another sign. The letter's rhythmic beat, when counting syllables is life spelling it's memories. And we stop at letters, hiding in the darkness of their syllabeles. And we say, I've lived five years in this letter. Here I forged a first syllable and a last silence. I forged engimas and secrets too. From my letter the way was born. And from my letter, the beginning and the current of other letters attached their syllables to the name. and I tell myself that each letter is an old memory and a silence.
in a way you never thought before..
Letters are not letters because they dream. There is something that barely marks each one, like a person's hands. These letters are not signs of another sign. The letter's rhythmic beat, when counting syllables is life spelling it's memories. And we stop at letters, hiding in the darkness of their syllabeles. And we say, I've lived five years in this letter. Here I forged a first syllable and a last silence. I forged engimas and secrets too. From my letter the way was born. And from my letter, the beginning and the current of other letters attached their syllables to the name. and I tell myself that each letter is an old memory and a silence.
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id like a fresh green tea
with a slight of honey
let's see how brave you are... yes anastasia.