Struck whirling wind come from slownesses of time. So far the memory cannot know any more. So near that one can see more. Knocked at any hour on the world and its roundnesses. Flee the impassive sky with the morbid clouds. Escape honey from our lives around the circle of time. Whirling in a stammering of memories. Ultimate dreams of our last oaths. Pivots for kasher our miseries. Not to die. Stupidly, plugged, carried by the wind. Traversed our blades sighs. Testifying that one breathes. Affirming that one can conquer. Time and wind. Hugging in a yoke of feelings. Impotent to extract the sap and blood from it. Running around the circle of time. Labyrinth in which one evokes a firmament. To make seeming. To be content. Disabused. To avoid being corrosive. Without listening. To knock the hours fleeing. Not being able to stop them. Too much quickly carried by this wind. Sweeping emerged surface. Our accidents. Flee the impassive sky with the morbid clouds. Escape honey from our lives around the circle of time. Ultimate combat of each day. To gain a new turn. In the large magic horse-gear. Where we all are plunged. Swimming. Not to drown. Suffocating. To avoid running. Under the vague heinous one of time. Slapping impertinence to believe in eternity. This whole never. Or with this adulterated idea. Getting drunk of the alcohol of so many missed days. That one can cut down. So easily. Scalpel of the lapse of memory. Magic of a tool. Who equips the beautiful one and the ugly one with false clothes. Factitious decoration hiding the slow beat of a guillotine putting rhythm into the pulsations of time. Cutting heads falling while impaling itself in the disastrous circle years.
J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
