fluff

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Shush... I try to listen to what claims your silence.
Lower your voice more to hear how you hear me
crayoned in your fluff hint with all senses choked.

Shush... still try to track what your silence claims...
I'm only miles away from you & a few secs of truth
in your howl... inhibited after sharply freed o'clock.


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morning rouse, — bizarre dream of last night, — forgot Les Fleurs at the coffee, — interesting Les Litanies, — followed with Lord's Prayer darkness, — identical as is a lit side; the beauty of ugly, the ugly of beauty, — Baudelaire explained; night and day, — unseparated; increasing, decreasing, — equally; the love, — is there or is not at all... defines a weakness, — artistic creation; a pray, — telepathy works... come closer
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yAyAyA

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Can you talk without having any knowledge about the one who supposed to listen to you passionately and conclusively? Doesn't it feel as if your voice puts your brain in a quandary? All you want is to read the magic of the stars. And yet, to do it, isn't essential to gaze into the eyes of the one who's loved? I found wondering myself, even as tempted, I imagined the lips of this enigmatic one, who's gazing at what wants to hear, while without getting pressured, it experiences all the songs' words. It's a vibe as if it reads me, wanting to identify on which side of the syllables am I sleep, and which word must be breathed... That one is dulcifying by itself with poetic thrills, ruled at a pub, somewhere on a roof known as the blue cafΓ©, in a «yAyAyA» realm comparable to milky-way, as if I know what it's like to be not to be.
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to balance the imbalance of some days, verify your soul volume,— one portrayed and discreetly arranged by your heartbeat with the temperature of your blood and mad pressure of some detouring stories systematized by the texture of your mind to rise the sound speeds of my whispers inapt of uttering, I love you I miss you... to balance the imbalance of some days, ain't nothin' wrong to check once more the timbre and vibration of my feelings
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bizarre... i don't know what it is… but i love it

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Bizarre how the artists hypnotize me with their own voice and instruments. Bizarre, 'cause while they coddle their own devices, they take care to beautify me, painting me tunefully with their music, using the magic powers of notes and words, while simultaneously, they tell their own ravishing story, inspiring me to create, — πŸ“ƒ © un p’tit je ne sais quoi ✒️ Bizarre, because the music, like any art, affects the way you feel, or I feel. Bizarre, because creates and induces certain emotions. Bizarre, because no matter what I'm doing, or you're doing, we're gonna make time to take a look at everything that makes you or makes me happy, while music will amplify tastes, colors, compositions, and shapes. Bizarre, because the music is the diacritic mark for everything in anything, and because depends on music for the way my story or your story is gonna sound ToDaY‣‣‣ t o D ream A bout Y ou‧‧‧ (me ‧‧‧ ؟?) I don't know what it is but I love it… πŸͺ„πŸ–Š️πŸ’«  ᡏᴼᡏᴼ © KᡉᡉᡖOⁿK...
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Today everything seems to be nicer. Even I seem to look much more beautiful. I woke up with the mad urge for bonbon, chocolate with almonds, and berries syrup. I've perfumed my hair with peonies. I dropped the sweetness of rose on my lips, and I took the happiness in my soul. Today, life just invited me to dance, and I accepted, murmuring, [and you, my love]
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you next to me

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slowly, my thoughts' wings, flap before landing on your senses, — [that's why you feel some thrill] how I move, it's an impulse kind that cause you to think of me, — [AWOL, some say you're scatty] music you listen to isn't faux pas, isn't irrational directed to you, — [its aim is to get you next to me] y'know that thrill that makes you look like a scatty one… [well-well], you just got how much I love you
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one million stardust

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peony buds blossom in my thoughts their delicate scent emanate through your eyes the sun, like a virtual luv3r, spreads velvety petals all over sedated, my lips narrate in the dialect of one million stardust cosmic words paint the skin of your dream in the hue of my shade your mouth tastes any part of me using the moisture codex of love Alien codex by The Wandering Caretaker
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me you

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the perception, me, you, the disappearing action yet my disappearing action isn't your perception, but a speck of miraculous dust out of the universe called love, a hereditary molecule from my DNA combined with the essences of all good addictions in encoded information just to tingle your spine
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