The World Is Alive And No Living

We Never Stop Reading, Although Every Book Comes To An End, Just As We Never Stop Living, Although Death Is Certain.

There Is A Time For Reciting Poems And A Time For Fists.

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

Bright Colours In The West, Giant Butterflies Dancing As Night Crept Like A Cripple Toward The East.

Death, In The Eastern Tradition, Was Only A Passage. What Wasn't Clear ... Was Toward What Place, What Reality, That Passage Led.