A white cloud creeps across the deep pile of evergreens. From inside the forest it seems like an interior matter, something to do with the trees, like a color passed from one to another, a requirement to which they submit unflinchingly like soldiers or brave people getting older.

Then the sun comes back and it’s all over.

Just a quadrilateral, living on the double coated glass door… And in this rectangle still another, plus some more odd shapes of different sizes, all sleeping on the walls of each room.…

What are these creatures, I do not know: I come from a moon far, far away; but I fear, and sprint away to my galactic ship…

I look at my picture frame next to the controls: A loved one, in just one memory.

I have no knowledge about this planet, but I know that, just like me, they have a family memory, a moment framed and displayed.

I sit and wait, as all things do beneath a starry sky… But hold no dreams, for dreams bring only wishing or useless remembrance.

I live in the chaotic scenes of a city where people sleep on concrete next to their bags full of nonsense belongings. Some seem possessed by inner demons, speaking in tongues, screaming, punching the air, wearing one sock and one shoe; ignored by the flock of suits on their way to trade stocks, and by the office workers, trapped in dramas and politics, off to their mazes of cubicles to pay their debts…

Every morning I descend into the downtown core, where I struggle to earn money for rent while I squander my dreams.

I’m a pawn in the rich man’s diabolical scheme…

I am dead in my own skin; I am empty in my soul… My past is disconnected from my future, my present has lost direction. I am a shadow of my aspirations, a drunk with numb visions, an empty vessel seeking an unknown cargo. I have lost myself, my ambition and my soul in the dark streets of a self-destructive love.

Today is the moment I’ve been waiting for, a new beginning, a day planned in the past, when I’ll be wiser, I’ll embrace the present and rejoice in the journey before me.

It is my own heart that I wish I could eternally sleep in, for yours is too cold and dry.

My suffocation has always been forever lasting when your arms hold me.

I have spent years considering all aspects of my existence, learning philosophies and religions; studying histories and stories; writing thoughts, conjecturing moments, thinking of all that had been thought.

And I concluded that there is no answer: Just literature…

Loneliness comes like a young burglar, awkward in his craft and obvious during high noon when I’m home and wide awake… I chase it away, hurling obscenities, and call out to my god to condemn it to hell.

And then I cry.

In my images is silence that speaks to me most and best. It paints the truth upon my soul in bold strokes, the most obvious of which some people think as the impossible and treasure in their temples of thoughts forevermore…