In any second our wings portion death and life.
We are equals as we are together...

Sounds vibrate to silence,
waves to stillness...

I always carried my death, living.
My memories all were...

pictures,
the cliché of memories...

As much as personal, love
is also impersonal...

Distance and love are opposite,
space and hearts...

To be or not to be,
the throat of an hourglass...

What if we won’t wake
for we are fugitives of...

To camouflage their
smeared hands they deliquesce in...

Wheel marks
on the mirage...

She cried for a little gingerbread,
its arm was missing...