eternity waits for none living inside calamity i'll never be a part of it digging in my depravity I'll always live inside of it

a shapeless recursive motion where memory serves the form it inhabits fateful iridescence

it's fine it's fine it's fine things you do to make it feel better like this

dance in circles turn me over grasping all that shadows keep

obsession disintegration desire to be consumed i never said to you i wasn't gonna go thru falling victim of exactly what they told you and now i hesitate to feel the interchanging superstition without faithful understanding (you can't be something else i never knew myself) (so find out for yourself there won't be nothing left) (a fire in my head i don't know anything) (you'll never satiate the power that's inate)

an amalgamation of mirrors facing colonizer borders unsettling the thought that you could take back your iridescent bribe and kiss of nectar it's coming for you

Gentlemen: It pleases me to inform you, by means of these lines, that death, more than a punishment, penalty or limitation imposed on man, is a necessity, the most imperative and irrevocable of all human necessities. Our need to die surpasses our need to be born and to live. We could do without being born but we could not do without dying. Until now no one has said: "I have a need to be born." However, one frequently does say: "I have a need to die." On the other hand, to be born is, so it seems, very easy, since no one has ever said that it was very difficult for him and that he put forth a lot of effort to enter this world; whereas dying is more difficult than one thinks. This proves that the need to die is enormous and irresistible, since it is well known that the more difficult it is to satisfy a necessity the larger it looms. One yearns more for that which is less accessible. If someone were to write to another always telling him that his mother continued to enjoy good health, the recipient would end up feeling a mysterious discom-fort, not really suspecting that he was being lied to and that, most likely his mother must have died, but under the weight of the subtle and tacit need overwhelming him that his mother ought to die. This person would make the respective calculations and think to himself: "This cannot be. It is impossible that my mother is not already dead." In the end, he will feel an anguished need to know that his mother has died. Otherwise, he will end up accepting it as a fact. An ancient Islamic legend recounts that a son reached his three-hundredth year among a people for whom life ended at the most at fifty. While in exile, the son, in his two-hundredth year, asked about his father and was told: "He's in good health." But when, fifty years later, he returned to his town and learned that the author of his days had died two hundred years ago, he seemed tranquil, murmuring: "I have Known this for many years." Of course. The son's need for his father to die had been for him, in its hour, irrevocable, fatal and had been fatally fulfilled also in its hour, in reality. Rubén Dario has said that the sorrow of the gods lies in not reaching death. As for men, if, from the moment they are conscious, they could be sure of reaching death, they would be happy forever. But unfortunately, men are never sure of dying: they feel an obscure desire and a yearning to die, but they always doubt that they will die. The sorrow of men, we declare, lies in never being certain of death. live, raise the height, lower the deepage deeper, let the wave accompany its impulse walking, the crypt's truce succeed! May we die; wash your skeleton daily; pay no attention to me, a lame bird for the despot and his soul; a dreadful stain, for whoever goes it alone; sparrows for the astronomer, for the sparrow, for the aviator! Give off rain, beam sun, keep an eye on Jupiter, on the thief of your gold idols, copy your writing in three notebooks, learn from the married when they speak, and from the solitary, when they are silent; give the sweethearts something to eat, the devil in your hands something to drink, fight for justice with your nape, make yourselves equal, let the oak be fulfilled, let the leopard between two oaks be fulfilled, let us be, let us be here, feel how water navigates the oceans, nourish yourselves, let the error be conceived, since I am weeping, accept, while goats and their young climb the crags; make God break the habit of being a man, Brow...! They are calling me. I'Il be back. I came to confuse myself with her, so much ...! Through her spiritual twists and turns, I kept playing among the tender strawberry beds, between her matinal Greek hands. Later she would arrange the black and bohemian loops of my tie. Once again I would see the absorbed stone, the spurned benches, and the clock winding us up on its reel to the stroke of its interminable wheel. How good those nights were, that today make her laugh at my strange dying, at my pensive way of wandering. Golden sugar pastes, sugar jewels that in the end shatter on the tombstone mortar of this world. But for the tears of love, Stars are lovely little handkerchiefs, lilac, orange, and green, which the heart soaks through. And if now there is thick bile in these silks, there is a tenderness that is never born, that never dies, another great apocalyptic handkerchief is flying, the blue, unpublished hand of God!