We all write for some purpose, as if an illusion was waiting hidden to be named. Thus some things are comfortable and lie on the surface with no need to be told. This time it is you who shows this being outside, gently unapproachable and, given the lack of closer definition, remaining some kind of smile.
Not coming from the world of words, not coming from the world of facts, you steal their position, and terrible mornings that await sweeten a bit when for breakfast, despite their insanity, we try to realise unintended poetries from light, and the bloody shark drawing a line on this mine ocean of maybes. Even I made a sketch of you in this policy of no collision.