A mystery. Gravity of the air. Who surrounds us. We imprisons. To breathe. To exist. Not to choke more. To find air. To leave this mystery. Who dismays us. Low than covers over with soil. So near to the hell. To exist. To breathe. To touch itself. To tighten itself. To go up. Towards the sun. Who sparkles. Rebel. Behind. The barrier. Clouds. A mirage? Or is this the age? To believe in these dreams. Bitter notes. Of a detuned piano. By so much of years. To be struck, martyrized. Our aggravated fingers. Do not make us any more waltz. To breathe. To exist. Repeated. Y to think constantly. To maintain the mystery. Hell. Our old years. With the damaged bodies. With the light spirit. Choked. By our rusted carcasses. Incompetents to move. In gravity of the air. With the ground odor. Where we will lie. Without being gone behind. The barrier. Clouds. Where sparkles. This sun. Without similar. With the honey taste. To exist. To breathe. To still believe that one is true. Equipped with our cowardice. Who so often protected us. To conceal us. Not to assume. This morning. It is not used any more for nothing. It is the end. No more other following day ago. Right this last morning. In the mystery. Gravity of the too heavy air to breathe to exist.
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
