About nothing at all

Numb like the glass between me and the world where it rains.
 But the thunder, that blows up the sky is not a part of me. That lightning with the bud drum shaking the world, it may puzzle me: entertains my gossip wanderings — my eyes, it fades. As the countryside on a nouvel, or a tablecloth on a dinner.

A blur is all that is left, as I turn my back to the window and dress a hot mug with the fingers, the ones that were on the window.
 I could have signed, and I would be a dreamer! Just another dreamer shopping for fantasies, delusions on sale.

Aren’t we all tired of huntign stars?
 Noises that survive, come up on my door: steps, car drums, water falling of the corners, the wind, besides all humans can produce of sound = a factory.
 They gling gloing in my porch, then I can understand the whole thing about being alife: what defines you is how you scape boredom.
 As a solution you can get luna been crazy, laugh, read, cry, lick someone still in the end of the day it still will be someone avoiding death. Arent we all?
 We are not alife like a rose or a ladybug, some bees.
 Humanity is fed, licking the ice of the end of a huge mirror, just licking.

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