Still a ceiling of wind, they swim on the thoughts, as clouds swept over a sea astral. Did you hear the storm? God, he bumped the scuroni over glasses over those glasses from which we sopportavamo another winter. Come and moving the eyelids, which are fixed on the clouds, intuition the wind, towards intuition the astral sea. I'm thinking of white truth, intuition pure and simple, that goes and leaves me a caress. The suitcase waiting for me. The suitcase I try. At night I would only think. And I write. At night, if I hear you think, I write. I close the sky and go to sleep; tomorrow will not hurt. The butterflies I launched the clouds, I let them go. Only a ceiling of wind. Towards an astral sea.
Related This entry was posted in Personal Notes and tagged astral, butterflies, sea, night, clouds, write, suitcase, life on September 11, 2014 by Michael. . Post navigation Ugly post card with missed opportunities, the two towers and wires dark and we still feel like the four friends at the bar
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