unreprived and wasted from the slumber that the drifting hours cast over the fragile senses leaving nothing but notions of fear, whom, suddenly, bends in hollow dens, nourished on those sentiments that once granted me the strengths enough to meant a significance, those on which i rely to conceive a truth.

as the tepid shade who leans in sore, chased by the daring glare that manipulate it with desperate cravings; the one that gently lends itself to mold the arrogant shape that impose to give it sustenance, to make it born of the oblivion from which it roam frustrated and melancholic. this shadow, although tired of the urge which make it illusion, which attire and softens it, disquiet in fascination with the beauty of its form, so delicate and soft, slave of the abrupt impulses that mistreat it, remain disposed at the ent who sentence it and the winds that shape their mystic gaze.

a.k.