It was a day when night as stopped…
and the awakening was sleeping nested below the demiurgic Waters.
Inside the shadows of pillow Statuettes,
the hurting eyes opened,
to liquid dancers in the reflections
of wrinkled stones.
Their static lives numbered by letters in the draws of Death,
hanged like an obnubilated wardrobe,
that never flows to tissue fluidity.
How many boxes are inside your imagined dance?
Music: I.E.M. - VI
