What seas crash in us,
in the night when we exist,
along the beaches that we feel ourselves to be,
inundated by emotion.
An opinion is a vulgarity,
even when it’s not sincere.
But no one besides me can see or have the things I dream.
We are phantoms made of lies,
shadows of illusions,
and our life is hollow on both the outside and the inside.
There are cloisters in this moment.
He is anonymous like the instinct that killed him.
Let us flee,
from being ourselves.