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Winter hands, cold clasps, the memory filters into something lucid, a salty drop on my brow, a once brilliant residue now over rich, segments collide, is this the place you hide when the warmth goes away? I`m not thinking about tomorrow, cause there`s a six letter word tat- inside my head, take all of your thoughts, put them aside, we are frozen in time, but I might step away, but I`m not turning my back on you, I`m not closing, our thoughts and words are crystallized in ice, no sense in trying to bring them back to life, thaw them out, you will find that they are disjoint, a new configuration. Maybe it`s better to live in sleep in constant dreamscapes. What is reality anyway?
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