23 nov. 2011


Sometimes the remnants of eras call me, such an unsettling march heard in the entire plane...
-''Drop a mere scent of your enthropy, feed the anonymous guests''
And my inner voice, which is made of red, starts to sound across the frozen halls of time:
-Let them look under the sands, where the truth is salt and the dogma is the water that creeps it into oblivion.

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