how palpable this realm is really...indubitably serene a land,creatures englufed in varmint desires....in those smoky appandages i see outside the half closed pane.....though this unrecruited mind of mine is writing,hands immerged in paper,i see a mirage-the coconut tree,black with the red outscrape-lonesome as a static windmill..blowing up his mind in the weak gust under these drops of insanity...as every shrill leaf cuts across the wind shores,its seems to be waving at the blue dome upstairs,apparantly though reddened cheeks as if some painter himself has been dileaniting its sorrows..my vivacious ardor is of to work i feel...alas..unsatisfactory its work is...words it does not find in this closed room...doors shut and a window half closed..the floodlight works less..an old lantern it seems midst these mundane showers.illuminates enough to contemplate me in these surrroundings i see..indulging these corrupt eyes of mine,hungry for sleep to gaze past the silhouettes on the standing water...
its flooded with its burlesque muddy forms and it carries to the shores these daily chores of the neighbourhood..as if these broken drops are befuddled in writing a prelude to some scrappy work...i lighten again in half-naked murkiness...stiff yet frantic is the drug inside...it leaves my lips less of a grandeur than bequeathing the suave smoke....ardent i feel...conscience rues still...scratching at the musings i feel...it feels nauseatic.....i unlip it again,harsh it feels on my lips...nonetheless,avarice has lost out in the mist tonight...my concsience exalts its rejoice...disgusted i am at it..smlithiring inside like an imbecile..it thickens quickly,i'm aroused again from dizzy multitudes....empty are the terraces that eludes my vision..and its still falling...reminiscing this ardent soul of mine to much provocation..for ages now as if undending sands of a closed hourglass-
how these drops elude a shrillness in the standing waters as if chiding a child in its sleep...its flashing past..the half closed pane is drenched in the slow wreckedness...wicked it is not,it falls slow..it kills with patience---the victim is unknown as he does not feel the approaching dumbness..it smiles asleep in ignorant bliss of unknown treachery these drops culminate...yes it comes...the blush gone now..the gery,pallable emmisery to martyrdom..the paleness now awaits..and the world awakes in cold distress..and finally i ride to bed..ah the shimmers of the smoke has not vanished yet...i smear past the widened crevasse...my eyes fixed still on the window ceil..which moves to cradle me to lethargy till dusk again---
