City folks don't get to see this!

Oh but they do

It's like so civilized and urban

They make a statement out of it

Taking blocks made of torn metal

By the thousand kg ballpark

They somehow make it go hundred miles an hour

Make it two blocks, actually

Opposite sides aimed right into one another

they jump on top of them

And there you go

Fire out of flesh and metal

There lies the call of a soul

that missed this view you have

Beaultiful and natural

Meant to be

Humms into sounds into screams

Unbearable day after day

But there's no choice

Now they're responsible for another

But the sound explodes the eardrums

And a monster made of dreams

Of peace and fire at the lake

Now had a taste for metal.

The Curse of Seeing Too Much

Being smart isn’t what you think it is. Not by a long shot. Clarity emerges at the intersection of intellect and emotion. Yet the path of wisdom is fraught with sorrow, as awareness becomes a crucible where the self is both forged and hollowed. Intelligence isolates, yet it also illuminates, forcing the bearer to confront the void—an eternal paradox of insight and despair. People talk about intelligence as if it’s this sparkling gem—a golden ticket, a backstage pass to an exclusive club where life makes sense, where problems are solvable, where suffering can be explained away. That’s a lie. Intelligence is something else entirely. It isn’t a blessing; it’s a kind of slow, grinding curse, a doorway to seeing the world too clearly. And the truth is, the more you see, the less you want to be here at all. See, intelligence doesn’t just hand you answers; it hands you awareness. Razor-sharp, unblinking awareness of everything: the cracks in the world, the quiet despair of peopl...

Areia

O tempo não escorre. Ele cai, pesado, como um prato que escapou das mãos. A areia não voa. Ela fica, suja os dedos, gruda nos cantos das unhas. Você fala de razão como quem divide a conta, enquanto eu penso em segurar o que resta no chão. Nossas vidas são o que sobra de algo que nunca vimos inteiro— uma pilha de grãos no canto do sofá, uma colher que não alcança a borda. Ainda assim, recolhemos. Guardamos. Empilhamos. Até o peso da areia fazer sentido.

Abyssus Vitae

To think that even those few who still drew near, To the tiny, asthenic, embryonic, Necrotic remains— Of what once, alive with emotion, declared itself a heart— Were, too, already tainted, by chaos imprinted upon existence. I relent, white flag’s ascent. Devil, rise—torment.

Weave complexity

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Acabou nosso tempo.