made for living, not for sleeping.
Amidala is lying in the front door opening,
gazing at her alleged sister on the left house corner.
I am walking barefoot all day, wearing only gloves, while gathering giant snails in the garden.
Glad I'm not a Buddhist, or all my flowers would have been eaten by those beasts.
In writing moment, 03.20 a.m. the dawn has long begun and the birds are already singing.
I'd like to share one of my favorite poems once more.
Music when Soft Voices Die (To --)
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Good night, world.