maybe that’s the illusionment about happiness.

we find what we love in tiny fragments scattered around seven masses of floating debris,

and then one by one, each one of them perishes with a trickle of drops flowing,

left and right, through labrinyths and abysses of time.

better off without those sparks and the pulsing and screaming of hot water on,

the coldness of veins.

content with those shards of distant beats far off miles and borders and country lines,

no longer appeased by the long windy paragraphs of sloppy, distressed ink with empty promises,

of see you across the moon’s shine.

purposes enveloped,

all is gone.