I'm changing the link of the blog with the blog title (remnants-and-ashes). FYI.

Enormous skies slip from your thoughts into my own, like a huge riddle or a mass that invades my brain and lifts me off the ground. Sir, where are your thoughts taking me? It's like you're degrading my reflections or sending them to exile, punishing me for having allowed my imagination to swim, and you preferred to rather make me soar, in your everything, and my nowhere. Happy?

I don't even recognize the colors in you, they breathe into me like a rainbow, except that I can't breathe; can a rainbow choke you into a coma? I'm not making sense. Shock me awake, please.

The upper I fly, the more depressing it gets; that doesn't happen, are we from opposite worlds?

Or maybe I'm deflecting.

I'm not making sense. I'm not making sense.

Sir, are you there?

You are lonely not when you desert people

You're lonely when you talk to too many people.

1. Can you choose your dreams before sleep?
2. How can you guarantee the ending if you cannot even philosophize about the beginning?
3. When the sky turns amber, is it really a sign of anger or just a vague ending for the day?
4. Does not having war necessarily mean peace?
5. How is an issue tackled with silence?
6. It's really hard sometimes to distinguish words from silence, isn't it?
7. Would you judge me if I said I'd judge you by the book you're reading?
8. How many lines did you read and never felt? Or shall I ask the opposite question?
9. Did you ever wish for colors to resemble real emotions?
10. When was the last time you really, really, thought about your death?

Felt that? Read again. Simple math.

Sometimes it's clowns that laugh at the crowd not the other way round.

I'm the word in bold

and you're the word in italic,

I wonder which one of us wins.

I write words down on paper to kill them, or so that someone else would be brave enough to save them. You can say I'm a words killer - and sometimes a poet.