The world had to be strange,
Chaotic, unfair,
So you could be beautiful.
You cause all that's bad
Just by being so good.
Everything has to have an opposite
(Not by ontology, but for our comprehension).
Every sunken ship, every poor town,
Every ****** with power and an empty speech,
Remind me of the details of your face,
The unstable order required
To the exquisite combination to result in you.
For you to be possible,
A whole world of madness was created.

Into the night
There's a different mood,
A different escape,
Something in our eyes
Hold all the magic.

Light blocks,
Keeps us apart
For the world is to big when bright,
And to small, with everything so close
When darkness and cold arrive.
It's in the night
We become interesting,
We let productivity aside
To be more content, authentic.

That's when we no longer
Rely on images
Our imagination
- Ironically -
Is free.

It's the water that bothers me,
Feelings of submersion,
The need of being salty to be ocean,
To overflow slowly drop by drop.

It's the water that keeps me liquid,
Turbulently running from state to state,
Mood to mood,
Tide to tide,
To be wave and current and breeze,
To dislocate within continents,
To somehow be attached to the land,
To avoid the sky to penetrate Earth,
To hold the void beneath.

It's the water, strong and weak,
Carving stone hearts through a strange dance
That make me look to the sky everyday
To expect a new kind of rain
To bring sand
Where only clouds, ice and river are known.

In your eyes I see mine,
I see yours blue and mine brown,
But I know they do the same thing,
I know their composition,
But I'll never know their content.

Whenever difference is imposed
A new border rise,
You and me,
Us and them,
Worthy and disposable.
One's land gets smaller and smaller
With every foot of fence added:
To have a land is be lonely,
To be smaller than everybody else
Despite any comfort.

Our skin that protects us
Is the same keeping us from teaching infiniteness.

I keep myself suspended in thin air
Through my weak arms,
Pulling the rope in a pulley tied to my hips,
Trembling muscles, fearing eyes, missing voice,
I see the ground getting farther
As my hands force me up.
I'll hit the soil, but when?

I suspend myself in a road
Between two cities I recognize,
But stuck in a middle town,
Unknown, bizarre, half dead,
Waiting a never coming repair,
A volatile gasoline to move me,
The guidance to be back on track,
But I get used to the town,
People suddenly are acquainted,
Unstrange, polite, mannerly.
I'm suspended between those cities
By a thin web of limits,
My lack of imagination,
My despise for shortcuts,
My eyes closed to any opportunity
(Received as an horrendous spell).

I'm in betweens,
The half way,
The dissonance of the division of a semitone,
The missing particle of quarks,
The dark half of a lightbeam.
I'm suspended, panoramic.

I'm not myself anymore,
I'm not myself yet.

If "A" equals "B",
"B" equals "C",
And "C" equals "A" again,
Why do we have three names to call them?

What if all my code lines
Those guiding my breakfast and my lust,
Turn out to be just a dumb shot
Of my own arbitrairities?

I would never be able to tell
If I'm right or
If I just think I'm right.

Paradoxically I only know I'm right
Whenever right I am.
It's not about being sure.
It's about the power and ability
To let yourself be sure