she’d never cheat on her husband.
bridges to link lonely banks.
severe bouts of melancholy.
like a ghost.
he was beaten to death in the street.
while looking at a star.
Being born is a heavy load.
until, via an inescapable trajectory…
I lost my youngest son.
But I sensed he was wounded inside.
The shadow looming over you.
a little wood.
Every language is a mystery.
On a fragment of stone,
This place is too full of memories.
to destroy something or someone,
Because her life has no meaning.
Yet she is unhappy.
Here, in the intimacy of the cloister,
Let’s lock ourselves up in the dark.
in a spiral staircase.
Still weak, but that’s normal.
for you are loved.
Spaces are nothing but emptiness.
psychology and psychoanalysis,
just one of my dizzy spells.
we recognized two known words.
The image on the shroud is a negative.
But the past still torments her,
It’s a circle.
are chance encounters.
like a disease.
Finally, we reach God’s space,
I neglected the light.
He says he came