When fear is coming out of the unknown
And the dream are the only places you know

When the day becomes the nightmare
and even the air becomes so rare  

The streets I've walked down a thousand times, become unknown
My neighbourhood, my childhood street, feels like a ghowsttown

The faces I long to see, never show
The familiarity becomes strange, when only eyes are shown

Heres to the endless working powers
And the time that flies by whilst we are standing still

The hope becomes stuck in the past
Everything that is going on seems to have forever to last

Time that only comes by once,
Weve been robbed; our years and months

Our youthfull dreams on stand-by, we can't fulfill
The whole world is holding still

A bump into strangers we long for
A better future we hope for

But time seems to take its time
And its shape keeps changing, like we do with this time

We are all immortal in our own time. Today I feel the warm caressing touch of life across my beleaguered face. Death does not escape me, but in this moment I am alive. One is immortal, if one has yet to understand what it means to die.

II

Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiralling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the corridor, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and we were told to identify faces in these coffin paintings. All day we tried matching, mouth stuttering half-formed names, lost faces, amputated body parts, strangers’ fragmented memory. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw creatures known as man and woman – to the woman on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the man on the left she pointed at the eyeless painting, said, stranger, this is you– and they wept together.

I

I was told that faces persist, could wear away pebble, wind, and sand. Rivers, long and winding, and the rain, always so strange, mingle with rippling ashes of our ancestors, their fingers dipping through charcoal powder, tracing animals over stone’s face, carving bodies out of empty space, faded faces on walls. We are not a dream, they were saying. Not flashes of an aged old dream. Sand-like memory, look for us.

Some nights are strange
You feel so tired
But can't fall asleep
You see a ghost behind your face
Your reflection in nothingness

And walk aimlessly on imagined streets
A state of half-awakened dream
Random thoughts come into your mind
For reasons you cannot find
You see a ghost behind your face
Your reflection in nothingness

A cool breeze flows
Like whispers of ghosts
The moon looks strange
In the sky
A blackness not completely black
You don't want to come back

Silver airs
Very strange
There's no yesterday
No tomorrow
No today
Just this eternal
infinitesimal moment

You want to have great thoughts
But you think nothing at all
Doing nothing in the dead of night
Looking into the mirror of the empty sky
And it's wonderful

The sound of trains
You thought something
You forgot
Never mind
There is no ghost behind your face
Just your reflection in nothingness

Legs more fragile than glass.
You pluck them off one by one.
This is why the other kids keep their distance.

Computer code is made of what,
Of devils thoughts
And dreams of god.

She sang with a beauty that made the sun shine brighter with every tune that floated up to the sky.
But one day she stopped singing.
A strange little boy told her, that no one gave a single **** about her little ditties.

She didn't cry.

She simply stopped singing, and went on about her life.
She kept to herself and the world began to wonder why everything seemed so quiet.
Then the sun stopped shining.
He couldn't go on, making the world a brighter place, if she couldn't sing her songs to him each day.
One night, the moon visited the girl.

"My child, you know that the Sun longs to hear your voice again. Do not worry what little boys tell you, they cannot make the music that you can. This night will last for many years if you do not raise your voice. Go on, summon the Sun."

Reluctantly, she stepped outside, and with a rusty voice,  she sang as loudly and as honestly as she could.

And as tears rolled down her cheeks, the Sun rose in the east, with tears that evaporated into steam as quickly as they came.

And the strange boy fell in love with the way she looked
to him when she sang to the sky.