Mountains always swallow the sky, this is where I live, where I stay, my cruel fistfight at the docks and my lake.
I had begged God for peace instead of the poison of disease. I begged, I scream so loud you'd think there were sharp claws in my head and no light in my soul, someone who would kiss the horrible festering open sores of plagues and death. I begged.
God is like an old poem you love to read and that loves to read you.
It's like touching soft skin when I go outside. A melancholic October and impressions of leaves falling, blissful red, an independent yellow one and its fascinating calmness.
I like standing on the docks with no shoes on. The boats in the water. I feel like between the two of us, I am the only one that knows the truth.
Christ-child, left with a whole world, everything I do is wrong.