This, ob-session is not one to look after. It is a course which must be dissected to its no-thing.
Enjoy it and not, are both pleasurable for my terre of phantasy. Where, it withers, the leaves speak with hope.
When you forget to water it, its presence reminds you it is still alive, waiting or not waiting. In spite of you.
In spite of I, the Other's voices darken my wings of walking on the ground, I love to hover and the solitary ecstasy of the air
touching cheeks and lips through a yellow -leave impressed park at dark, the liberation de la livre, a script of my own.
The numbers of "my" are dangerous in signifying the chances of the Death of the Author. But I, remain here away from I, she
is beautiful, etherial, true and unbound by the black symbols that surround me. Forever alive, beyond the Real that I pretend to speak.
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