People fall from bridges. Just the way frost stumbles upon buildings. Hands freeze and almost fall off. Lips are sealed but persuade this delusive heat to outburst and eyelids become solid blocks, sugar cubes holding tight to the eyes.

Apocryphal steam tickles the skin, an incandescent overflow of nothingness in its pure essence, but dressed up in a fluctuation of benevolent coziness. But there’s no such thing in the heart of a frozen river, freezing by the minute, sleeping unconsciously on the edge of its own death.

Everyone denies this coldness, all those who have golden raindrops in the apple of their eyes. It’s not possible, to burn in ice like never before and swallow everything while your chest gently becomes an open cage. A birdless cage.

A wall with no bricks or an odd cake, flavourless or a jejune phoenix throwing itself in the fire right after rebirth. Well we turn into Greek statues. When the statues stop having sight, but just stoned eyes, then the Gods are dead.

And the statues now look at the steep cover of ice that circles their eyes. And smile at this peaceful insanity, this murderous healing of everything that ever hurt. And the Gods choke and die. One by one.

Mornings now look like grass on fire. Underneath the fire, the grass still breathes. Lacks any consonance, lacks colour and weight, stares at the sky and waits for the plea of whatever may come and give the void a sense. Dreams upon dystopias that fail to appear, fail to break into pieces of what is real.

And it struggles to keep content and lucid, to keep alive the possibilities that now tend to paradoxes, but of course, imminent and forseen, the fires cools and the grass decomposes in ashes.

And now mornings smell like burned faces. Flesh and skin and plastic and the wood underneath the plastic, the ground with the mud and the soil and the creatures that live there, in the odour of people call air.

And this is what it’s left to be seen on an empty surface, of no people and no knowing and no buildings and no remorse, just as the words remain catatonic under leftovers, no prophetic skies and eschatologic clocks running counterclockwise, with subtle grins on the faces of the clocks.