My walls

my insanity

my passion in the night assume only that today

i’m more alive and tomorrow more dead.
That’s why I don’t go adoring curtains
Nor correcting ghosts stories
Nor exchanging coins for insomnia
Nor beating the moon with sticks
Nor covering hysteria with paragraphs
Nor kissing the back of my hand to prove that I believe.
My presence in the night grows like a tapestry that someone is watching.
In the night

I learned the silence of being.
The silence of not being is not learned

but both have their names in the night.



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