In these cold mornings sleeping slide between the bed and office, without realizing that matter, between the two things a sleepwalker.
The train slowly and silently, no one watches the other passengers, someone whispers, forbidden to speak.
mandarins eat and drink you 'with milk, I read books and newspapers protected by the passage of time, I forget to look out the window.
I do not live on this, but you know, and so 'impossible.
In trying to live the day, we slip in the hours, if you try to live the hours, the aspiring minutes, until everything gets sucked into something foolish, meet from, as we try to divide it. All of us cries
meaning incomprehensible.
I look out there and 'snow on the lawns trees, even the sheep, blinding white. Snow
that renews the world after it embraced.
and Out 'a little' dark, quickly comes a strip of brown earth, crack you open them in the landscape and candid 'sheep huddle, looking in the same direction, toward the train. They look at the empty imitation. Or look at us?
It will not be 'possible to live the present, but feels the time that exists, flowing. When it flows more 'quickly leads to unexpected pangs of pain. Pain or pleasure?
A great beating heart.
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