If there is someone who will not be loved, you will go and find my heart

If it is to serve, I am as extraordinary as those who have defeated humanity imagine. I go up and down the steep stairs in line with my ordinary dreams and hope.

A self-sacrifice born of the fold in me.

Is it the breath I consume or the life I consume? What matters is the time left behind and all the pain that I was inspired by a humorous poem yesterday and that I can still digest with the happiest days of my childhood.

Although the bisector is the night and my guide is the nightingale, both crows and seagulls keep their cries and laughter.

My stubbornness: I am a giant rose.

I'm stubborn, my companion is the nightingale, and whichever paradise flower or paradise bird is its regular.

When I wake up in the morning and stuff the day into the bag: the plug or the stopper of the night? Or is it the enthusiastic footsteps of the colt running inside me?

There's nothing I've been longing for anymore, because it made my longings and wishes come true. workers.

Night workers? You know, the wind of my inner facade, which the poet emphasized emphatically, whistling in the darkness of the night, the laughter of the sunrise, and the people I ran away from.

Workers of the night, in fact, began to appear in the streets in the early hours of the afternoon. Albeit a single one.

For example, the days when I was an imaginary lantern, and my school years and the roads I fell asleep in the presence of God when I was appointed as a regular at night…

Sometimes I don't take off my hat, you know, my age and age, which has changed from yesterday to today, and my age and mourning period, now pass through the parliament as a law, and may I live, I am a night worker.

It is a fact that I do not like the streets, especially the people who walk the streets in the dark of the night, and none of them are night workers, because none of them are those who are poured out into the streets, and it is the medium they serve, not as a duty.

Inconsistent and sleepless.

It's not the drops falling from my eyes anymore, it's just that voice that pulls people out of my eyes and heart.

I am neither a night owl nor a sparrow.

I am neither human nor angel.

I'm neither moody nor compliant.

I am neither a hypocrite nor a shadow.

Wasn't it me, with the excitement and enthusiasm I got from my power of faith, and the one that I could love easily, with sleepy eyes on my friend on the phone?

Why don't the people I love come and find me?

Here is the response I got in return:

If there is someone who will not be loved, you must go and find them and you will engrave them in your heart.

I'm not in the mood to shave my hair, but my heart is like a collapsed road and somehow on my way through love, my path has just fallen to myself.

A life where I dream of being perfect.

I strive to be perfect in every sense.

And besides, I live my loneliness as a man, and while I sneeze in the daisy field inside me, daisies and even though I am a flower, I am talking about the pollen that got into my nose and here I am winking at the ghosts in a light where the night misses, and someone is pulling on the child bride's veil.

I'm after the wicked and the hypocrite.

I am human, or the world where I perceive a supernatural power and where I am both a member and ignored with every bit of my dealing with dimensionlessness.

While living alone on one of the hills and in silence.

It's not a despised loneliness, especially after nightfall.

Who would have thought that I would be the addressee of these sentences written decades ago?

My sincerity and endless joy of living while ignoring the mechanical sound of my soul and my body while I was the only clue that I exist.

It doesn't matter if I live day or night, after all, the inviolability of love and hope is hidden in the sight of God, then I'm on the right track and I'm a night worker, too, I wink to eternity with my bright heart that spreads wings to the darkness where I planted love...