Baús metafísicos - esboços de nada

You hear the clock. Something's there. Outside, somewhere. You hear its wind, that unfathomable hag, that ecstatic incubus. Between each word a ballad and a drop. The torrential rain doesn't forgive. Through the crags, the serpentine hollows are martyred secrets of reason and power. Between each of them, a satire, an abyss. And you hear those unhumanly poorly appreciated voices, among drops of colours, of sins, painting mixed figures of haggard wings. You just stay there. You hear it. You close your eyes, smell the rain, tremble each pore of your skin, feel the darkness, embrace yourself on it, absorb it and when you try to see it your tears turn to blood and each painting avoids your deepest dust. You stay there all by yourself trying to figure out what may it be, what may you be, what may you may...
...
A single lady by the stairs. She is starring at you with those sad eyes of a lived life and those iron claws pointed at you. With a single shadow upon her waiting for her to live, simply the will of travelling to the other side for someone else to be killed. You stand there, day by day, trying to see her leaving but you just can't, you just can't go, she just can't want to. The hatred tells her to kill you, to rip each tendon of your skin, explore each muscle, eat each poisonned vein, smash each bone of yours. But she can't move already. The pain is even too high to breathe. And you just can't move. Any second is like an hour and you can't move. Your dying with her. Your hands are painted in black, your fears are filling your thoughts and your will turns to sand, blows in pieces of paper, on clouds of wax. Storms by her. She dies. Heart is still beating. You take it, swallow it, move it and open your eyes. The heart is still there. Your blood is comming from it and suddenly all world is gone. You're the one. You're the only one. And you're dying.
...
A music box is singing your name. You touch the brands of the world and something blows outside. You run. I, the deepest you, want you to fill me in. You dry. Run, run, run. You dry. You can't feel a thing 'cause you're too sentient. You move, you cry, you tremble, you chill, wizen. I shout it louder. Deepest self prays your secret and shout it louder with words you can't tell. Light turns to black. Iron. Always iron. Sometimes wax, sometimes olive. Roses came by. They fall. Your hand freezes. I shout it louder. You don't feel. You don't even hear. You run. Everything else smiles at you. You fill you in. I scream for you. Ignoring field I start to climb the mountain of silence. You cry. Everydody smiles. You forget. I die. You move. The rock drops by, you swallow it. I die, you move. You seek, I shout.
__________

Three pieces of a main dream. It has nothing, it means nothing. Even if it does, it doesn't matter. I heard that, i lived that, i just can't remember what connected which and how exacly that staff came to me and mainly how exacly it did circulate through my brain. And the subjects, think of them as noone 'cause i haven't seen a single body on the dream. Only shells of selves.

Breaches of blasphemic desecrations