Do you remember
in cold winters...

how pretty you are in the vanity mirror
is how the mirror...

The awe
of wrinkles...

Everything is running,
seemingly towards somewhere...

If you kill the messenger
The message forever...

Where has the butterfly winged?
Where has the flower gone...

God is dead,
thus Zarathustra said...

Thus said a boy ingrown and callow
to his mother...

O my beautiful butterfly
you are not so beautiful after all...

Nothing makes me happier than when I see
good in people eyes...

I. Sutra of Measure
We believe in distance...

Sunset, sunrise
an opulent pair of bloodshot cherries...