Which dream god are you and which peninsula is included in the archipelago a treat or are you?
I'm tearing up again.
What I can't resist is a slice of bread, in the fragrant smell of my hunger, where my heart is brewed.
The prayers hidden in my moist eyes, of course, differ from the beholder to the beholder.
I am white with my color and my red hair inherited from my childhood and my color turns red every time I am embarrassed, I avert my eyes and focus on the sky.
I am like my flag.
Both red and white.
I am like love.
What is it that I have in this mortal world, to the universe I belong to with my supplication, while it is sometimes stagnant and sometimes unending?
My dreams are pale and accompanied every night without slowing down, and I wish there was a record button placed in my memory that I want most, and my lower memory would record one by one as soon as I fell into dreams.
Will it be obvious?
For example, I'm like a dream right now, I can't see in front of me, but since I'm hidden in the moment, here is my color.
While I still keep my whiteness
While the fear of death and the power of faith are still hidden in my pangs.
I cannot prove in which dimension I am hiding, that I have changed dimensions.
I don't like the superstitions of time and space, actually fond of my freedom, maybe I've taken prison life for all this time.
It's over the top, accompanied by my feelings and enthusiasm.
Sometimes I turn off and stay silent.
In a makeshift cottage, I whistle the moonlight to the thousands of stars that I have hosted inside me, even though I come across one of them from time to time, when I pick up the pen from time to time and press the trigger, they fall one by one from the sky, while I fill their remaining voids in front of me and I can never imagine how the void inside me will pass.
My overwhelming existence.
My feelings on the floor.
My shattered dreams.
My pen, the top of which I gnaw, or rather my desire to live in the trunk of a tree with my pen-popping temperament, and as the pen pecks, I sand the page, I write the story of my dreams and every emotion I add on blank paper, but the emptiness inside me still can't be filled.
My long years spent in outer space and my temperament and unfinished tales that I poured and sprinkled into the outer space during my youth when I had to be the most exciting and active.
If I am a hero, it is unclear from which fairy tale he escaped.
This emptiness inside me is inherited from my childhood years, which I dimly went through and from those days.
The only and lonely child in the house and here are my imaginary friends, hundreds of imaginary friends presented to me by the universe when I don't know what dreaming is.
In general, dozens of children living behind the curtain and their mother, if that child is a woman, is my best friend.
Yesterday's rhythm and music don't go out of my ears.
My huge life spent in my father's house is another place where I escaped for a while, but the only place I turn around and reach is the final destination.
Hanging from my day before.
Carrying my day into tomorrow.
My dreams and my boat of hope for the future, which I have already traced and included in the day.
That space.
That rich emptiness.
On the other hand, I go back and forth between reality and dreams, and sometimes I can't return from my journey and I fill the void inside me only by writing, which is my consultation with the pen in a limited time, when my tongue turns, in fact, with the command of the pen, I escaped from my garden of paradise where I was hiding and I could not speak on the inviolability of the page. my voice and my dreams and my heart.
I am indebted to the universe.
Sometimes I forget myself in the world of dreams.
I'm forgotten.
I've been put to sleep for a lifetime.
It was a time when I was defeated by my incompatibility and temperament, and here are my yellow-faced dreams that camped in mimosa gardens, whereas at the beginning, I started life as a pink rose, and that emptiness that creeps inside me, and in any case, with a hope focused on pleasantness, my inner world and outer world can never reconcile.
Would I love out of nowhere and write, and my next stop.
That sadness in my pen's temperament is the luck of being born again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again. The invisible tear, of course, is the one drop of tear that drips under each of my writings that I temporarily put a stop to.
