There is a blue house. Protecting itself from the wind, the heavens. There lives a couple of loving ghosts. Impertinent and roguish. Being lazy both. Modifying the present of a simple wish. Aspiring to a wonderful world. Sneaking between walls sensitive to cold. Years, of ungraceful centuries. Without aging, nor being old. Their blue blood. Bubbling in veins stormy. The lively and languishing look. Rocking their illusions by listening to. The melody of their melancholy. Slide slowly fashionable. They do not sleep. Do not eat. Need nothing. Haunt at nights. Sneak between rainy drops. Flooding the shadows of their regrets there. In the wild ball to get drunk, to swirl. To forget. That they are children of the space, everything, for nothing. The present, the future sliding between their hands. For years, centuries, it is so. Getting lost in the infinity of their life. Every day is similar. Without sleep, nor awakening. Furniture does not change place. The moment fades. Identical in yesterday, formerly. Without border, nor other law. That to begin again everything by repeating without growing tired. The moment, the inflection of the time. Capricious person. Modifying the present of a simple wish. Leaving them the unique right to be in love. They make an excessive use of it. Use him. Behind the walls of the blue house. With the sensual pleasure. To being able to close eyes. And to believe that they are happy.
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
