---

"Along the street death walks... crowned

Crowned with withered orange flowers,

And it sings, sings, a song

With its white guitar."

...And it sings, sings...

Would you mind if I die?

I write about sensations, moods and apparitions,

while people give parties to cover the silence.

There is no sense in feeling remorse for a thing you could not control.

And death sings, sings...

Would you mind if I die?

What did you want when you continued to ask?

My energies must be direct to an act.

I continually research a sure channel to address my emotive contradictions.

I yearn they have a positive origin

Intolerant towards imperfection.

I practise a secret auto-therapy,

I practise... a personal and secret auto-therapy,

against the shame of publicly showing our own signs.

(memento audere semper)