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Intervals You're telling me... in soft notes, slowly glide the essence of your breathing. Young cypresses in the breeze. So... you exist, like a young cheese, a little time. In the rush of the ravenous, you disappear in an instant. And you would like to compose yourself you pack the holy in the mold of hope. Prayer in announcement. You're telling me about future birds on the wire above the bench of despair, where we sit deaf to flying intervals. You talk about heat and magical sunsets. But... the sun has drowned and there is no dawn in us, on our deaf bench. Talk and open synapses, you will pick up some parts yourself. until the blows of my storm tempt me into confession, and until I turn to the Sun in its infancy. Mila- secha princes
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