Confessions of the mirror

I see black and blue; shadows reflecting upon me and my ancient soul have got little to speak but the words of hate and detest, and people’s ramblings of nonacceptance to the perfect answer to their sky-stained navel-gazing. If I look far enough through walls and through doorways and alleys, I can see a traffic policeman trying to control the traffic on a tired Sunday evening, where a gauge of young drunk men are somewhat causing curtains beneath his eyes. But what words has he got? Other than the usual cussing and blabbering that only the twilight is there to hear for you. Almost it is the same with people, who atomize their each and every desire and sin in a gold covered box, which only when they see in the bright light reflecting a ray is filled with an abundance of coal, with a few flowers in between, all of which are completely distorted and damaged.

If he could have spoken through ages, or killed his own inventor, whom I believe could be a troubled old man inspired by the still waters of a lake at sunset-time on a desert plain, maybe he would not have suffered the envy, abandonment, hate, name it, of people who are maybe trying to open their eyes and wet them, for a reason that could be little other than self-impression and the creation of an incarnation, that they speak before going to sleep, and before their children’s examinations, and when their company is flopping or their writing is going from bad to worse. He would have shattered himself into pieces, and acted as a symbol of the nearing of the black could, and laughed as it so that body being carried away to hell.

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Cherry Cola

Lights ache through the mountains, unusually far and lucid and hiding the shadows beneath them as if to cover the mystic words of an oculist blasted upon them a million years ago. Little scarred are the downy hearts that look upon the solitude; they know they shall find their grace and their pardon, shall they be here long. Those who look down upon here are the snubbed, almost teen-like spirits who have little to see and little to wonder other than their old schoolboy textbooks and their ragged computer screens. Up, up floating onward, they are flopping like vampire souls, drinking Cherry Cola in front of the mirror.

Shall life be a prayer that we utter like a impulsive catechism every night before we go to sleep, we could look it up in an empty mail inbox and find it cornered in the spam folder. Sunsets falling down tearing apart speak loudly to us then, telling us that the mystic law of the universe is an incarnation prepared by the Gothic figures of ghost in fairy tales and blood-suckers in romance. Maybe life would be better if we would drink Cherry Cola every night before we go to sleep instead?

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