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As water brings to life the spectacular quiet of ignorance, it gives us lament deaf. Sweet candies are poisoning us. Whatever we do, we lose ourselves — Black holes dressed in a white-collar spread out the poison.

The spectacular quiet of mental confusion. The carrion crows are singing the national anthem while the blood it still gushes out of the vain.

You want it darker my lord.

Poems about life. The dark shadows hide behind our words made of false hope. Let me leave. I’m tired and bored.

An expanse of flower fields stretched out, kiss the ground. As like as a tourist guide show what was happened. The spectacular quiet.

A crazy mental talk with the dead people and dancing into the red puddle. Do you hear it? The voice?

The echoes replay, but it is tricky. Don’t save me. I’m tired to fight. It is your voice. Anybody wants here you.

Have you ever seen the nothingness in its eyes? Is its gaze? You want it darker my lord, its a killer. It is life.

In the eye of a cyclone, the land is quiet, but,  around it, everything is singing. The quiet is an illusion. The sensation of the water, diving in the ocean is like a piece of senses. There is no one.

Wake up from whispers in the night, the world still sleeping quite, unaware of the storm that is there outside. Also, the old stones are screaming. But they’re not stone, are cadavers.

They had already found the eternal quite, so why they still screaming?

I’m sorry, but I’m tired, I’ll come back to sleep. I’m not interested feel something, Why should do it?

As poems about life describe what we don’t care, the spectacular quiet of life and its falsehood define our experience as a human — the sleepers.

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