To compare the mother sea against a bubble and against all of her foam. To even talk about the sand and ice of the dark seas of nebulae. To confess the curative effects of beer on my feelings about my reasons to be. If there is one, and about my performance or my lack of. To tell my love I’m still in love and always will be, normal interruptions in between. This blog is for
Why do cats have so many lives if, in the end, the spirit of death completely ignores the pride hidden in their whims or the pleasure of pampering?
What can the infamous death of hide-and-seek feel if it has never meowed under the light of the waxing moon?
It hasn't even imagined the world as an immense skein of melted cheese.
Much less has it noticed your love or your pain when they have left, never to return, because you know full well that there was a trick, that their seven lives hadn't yet been fully used up.
Because you know full well that there was a trick, that their seven lives hadn't yet been fully used up.
