Moods

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Come what may, bad days shall pass, exactly like all the others.

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The song of the sea ends on the shore or in the hearts of those who listen?

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We are flames of the hell to heat our winter of oil mattresses closed in three parts in a shed with an umpteenth courage in the belly that will be born in March on a white motorboat before sunrise.

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How glue sticks behing photographs, it doesn't come off and if you tear it off you only tear away the first layer of nostalgia.

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There's some rain and I'm waiting for a fire, a spark that may light me up amongst then ash, a dawn in this utter darkness, returning to write upon your skin.

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There is too much rain and I'm losing height, flying through air pockets through the clouds, if I cry water it isn't acknowledged and amongst others you are suggested to smile.

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It's useless to illude oneself, once you've lost the moment nothing is the same, people return but things don't go back to being what they were, people come back but you can't go back to restart from a moment that has vanished in time.

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I love the woman that I was. Even if she was fragile she was never weak, even if she was tired she never stopped fighting. She knew how to resist. To the woman I was I feel as if I have to recognize some merits, many: the courage to be wrong, the good will of being there, the responsability of choosing herself.

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I am the desperate one, the voice with no echo... he who had everything, he who everything lost.

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No one brushes my hair as well as the wind.