humble bow to bigger things

The moon has become your eyes and at your sight I reside.

I have been dreaming and writing and reading, what else is there to do?

In this humidity all I hear is Nietzsche slur I can't get out of my mind and strange dreams I probably lived in previous days.

All of these people are boring and they try to tie me down to their disgrace but I can not cope with humans burdening their hearts in such way.

Yo por siempre te amaré Laura.

+

don't we all take pictures of the moon when we go to sleep?

Encontré una entrada creo que en un blog en donde ponían un montón de palabras en latín y pensé en ponerlas aquí, las que mas me interesan. Ahí van:

• Amantes sunt amentes - Lovers are lunatics
• Amat victoria curam - Victory favors those who take pains
• Amicitiae nostrae memoriam spero sempiternam fore - I hope that the memory of our friendship will be everlasting. (Cicero)
• Amicule, deliciae, num is sum qui mentiar tibi? - Baby, sweetheart, would I lie to you?
• Ars gratia artis - Art for the sake of art
• Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui - Beware what you say, when, and to whom
• Credite amori vera dicenti - Believe love speaking the truth. (St. Jerome)
• Difficile est saturam non scribere - It is hard not to write satire. (Juvenalis)
• Ex nihilo nihil - Out of nothing, nothing comes / is made

"I dream. Sometimes I think that's the only right thing to do."

I probably need one.

I want to stop talking words that are so sharpen they slaughter my throat.

The skin I live breaks and gets torn up and gets sewn again. 

The parts that break are easily attached to promises that never stand still.

The parts that get torn are like words written in chalk, erasable: not permanent

and the parts that get sewn are the ones you wanted to replace but couldn't find a match.

I wish I could make you stay alive, remain; but I can't make you lie about things that you know nothing of.

Pack your bags: your ignorance and pride

delight and reason,

take the pilgrimage of your lifetime 

for when you come home I shall not be waiting for the seasons to arrive.

The skin I live breaks and gets torn up and gets sewn again. 

The parts that break are easily attached to promises that never stand still.

The parts that get torn are like words written in chalk, erasable: not permanent

and the parts that get sewn are the ones you wanted to replace but couldn't find a match.