I never noticed that it all can
go so quiet sometimes. I can almost
hear the breaths and buzzes of a
a punk-looking bug that keeps
coming around my balcony, painted
in color of fire, mixed with a few
faces of cremated cloud. And
that sound of leaking faucet, remixed by
the moans of unseen
desires with wings and wheels.
The death of thoughts is the birth
of my no-mind. I see
pure nothingness morphing into
countless multiverses, before
I wake up to my
old world of decay and innocent sins.
