There is a road in the middle of nowhere parallel between the metal and finally a train roars and scares of the cicadas in the summer. No one knows where it's rumored that someone born with, but end up "in the country that is dying." Some houses remain unchanged with the passage of time in the valley bathed in fog, which rises in the morning to stifle with the sun and lies down again in the evening to make your life indistinguishable.
"Back to the sixties american" you might say to cross that door.
There is an old woman who forgets is forgotten and, speaking of things that may not be familiar, a doctrine that has made the first illuminated and then slave.
An unstable man, "shaking" as the spark that turns yellow, bent over volumes and volumes on the Spirit, sits back in the bedroom, the temple of faith and (non) reason.
The opaque colors, white black in a kind of moving, they are completely separate but equally fluid as immiscible between them. Everything is in place, clear, pure, free from all anxiety.
As the lives of these two people, one climbing on the other.
Their roots are not known, but aim high, too much to understand and share the joy of a lifetime.
Because who does not cultivate can not expect to collect .
It 's like a dark window in a dark room, empty but inhabited.
It 'just a photograph of eight smiling faces to give life to a house of terror?
What are smiles? Honest, dishonest? Of interest, pulled by fear? They claim
They know me,
They pretend They Know, But They Do not
This taste of the tears of rage? Pour in the name of what, because of whom?
What does it mean?
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