the Persian buttercups made biogeometry in me ‧ the beauty of flowers are in my body and soul ‧ even when divinities are dark, their breeze eliminates it ‧ the hidden geopathic stress, purifies my naturalness ‧ my happiness gets power, influenced gently by love ‧ stuck in the middle with you, in me blooms sensuality ‧ your lips sigh to me politely the poem of love in two  ‧ so blame me, don't blame me, you are in me, i am in you

At any end of the year, the same game is unfolded. The present year asks if I feel guilty about anything, or if it has to feel guilty about something. Then, it hinted me to keep only the good memories, the rest, it said, — please, put it in on me. Inevitably, it kept on, — I know you learned new things, or at least, some suspicions of yours were confirmed. For a moment, I was surprised when it changed a few words with the new year, which, even if it appeared disguised as a tiny white rabbit, I recognized it by its manner of gazing at me. It was receiving some advice… — the old year said to the new one, — (love her madly). Let her happiness act for you as (your best enemy).