The uncommunicativeness has fabricated the alphabet of silence, composing so the words from sounds, chic combined with mine and yours, plasticized in the inverted commas, because a title can be dotted with dots. When the scheme of the words gets to you, they kiss your lips, haunted in the nuance of a sinless flirt, blown through the murmur of a bizarre thought in the anticipation of some responses to the questions of my soul. Both our opinions palpitate in syllables, read and heard in some dialects, written on the staffs with the echo's synesthesia, susurrated in the mirror of the sky, while you're in my mood, exactly as… eu quero, you, sighing out your fixation, elle et moi.