Language is not beautiful.
It is cruel, confused, sad.
This is how I start my novel.
In the streets, in inexplicable tears.
Too late to review what’s happened.
The cars rushing by, motion.
Great lives begin in doubt.
Heroic lives succumb in despair.
Anonymous lives like ours, we just die.
I begin my unorthodox survival,
by denying everything.
What are the boundaries of a chapter
when there are no categories?
Language is not a beauty.
It is raw, boom, slack.
This is how I start my novel.
Language is not beautiful.
It is cruel, confused, sad.
This is how I start my novel.
In the streets, in inexplicable tears.
Too late to review what’s happened.
The cars rushing by, motion.
Great lives begin in doubt.
Heroic lives succumb in despair.
Anonymous lives like ours, we just die.
I begin my unorthodox survival,
by denying everything.
What are the boundaries of a chapter
when there are no categories?
Language is not a beauty.
It is raw, boom, slack.
This is how I start my novel.
Aren’t boundaries the same as political limits crossing the horizon?
Or is it coincidence that sun-coming brings us darkness in a different angle?
Could think about afterglow all night long. Summer and breeze.
Beyond Language 
this is awesome, hurt my eyes a little… lol
hahaha true!
Language is not beautiful.
It is cruel, confused, sad.
This is how I start my novel.
In the streets, in inexplicable tears.
Too late to review what’s happened.
The cars rushing by, motion.
Great lives begin in doubt.
Heroic lives succumb in despair.
Anonymous lives like ours, we just die.
I begin my unorthodox survival,
by denying everything.
What are the boundaries of a chapter
when there are no categories?
Language is not a beauty.
It is raw, boom, slack.
This is how I start my novel.
Aren’t boundaries the same as political limits crossing the horizon?
Or is it coincidence that sun-coming brings us darkness in a different angle?
Could think about afterglow all night long. Summer and breeze.