There are countless frequencies moving inside me like a wind-up doll

Dream shutters are surrounded around me!

I take refuge in the locked drawers of silence.

My limp body, I know that I am a disciple of solitude, and I plant prayers on my thirsty lips.

It's like the ideal of love, while words are standing still, this silence and walls that are the harbingers of the apocalypse for a lifetime: ah, the walls that are walking on me...

Every wall is stained.

Every wall is dangerous, especially if the walls have an ear.

I'm quilted from syllables; my conscience is my pillow, and I breathe love, I breathe openly, my cells are clearly decreasing.

There are voices camped in the sky, and if the groan of death is me, I have listened to the cries of the wind blowing inside me.

I am in indescribable pain and enjoy it in a strange way.

I can't continue because my mind is elsewhere, my body is elsewhere. There are pictures perched on the walls, standing upside down and sweating, my body chanting is hidden inside me, however, I can never explain what I have come across with colorless, racial pains these days.

Feelings moving inside me as if a recital: every emotion has a note in my ears.

There is no trace of mercy around me and I pray more as I melt inside.

I drink as much poetry as I do not drink, between two thoughts, then the poems fade, then the wall changes color, but I am trapped in a color that I do not know what it corresponds to.

My bleeding lines are gangrenous, my pen.

My head has already cleared, it seems that I can never gather my thoughts and put them together, anyway, my body and mind are playing on separate wires.

my plea?

Are my words growing?

Is it a living heart?

What climate am I and what dilemma am I in?

The subject that I tense.

My anesthetized thoughts and miserable nerve cells are now contracting too much with the air inhaled by the cell I fell into, just as how many thousand of my cells are now dying, and I am constantly being tested by sounds from the other side of the wall.

Is it the voice of a woman laughing madly or a man? Maybe the third genus and the tribe of Lot come to my mind immediately, obviously I am the messenger of the doomsday, but I am looking for ways to inspect my parasitic inner voice and suppress the external sound, and I make eye contact with the unspecified plant in front of me, and I suddenly look away.

I doubt that I have an identity or freedom, and my inner voice suddenly begins to falter. I touch the darkness in which I see the bottom of my thoughts. I don't fit in any mold and I'm falling.

I'm trying to remember the name of my relatives and the thumping thump in my heart. Maybe the reason why I don't remember their names is the distance of the feeling called love. Ya, what is my name and who am I?

The clock I set.

Countless frequencies moving inside me like a wind-up doll.

This time, the walls that don't have color but come over me with the voices coming from the unknown.

I imitate what the poet said. What did the poet really say?

They kept asking. The gods didn't know what they were asking, but still they ask, they ask. I don't know other than my name.

Is it okay not to remember my name, or is it a sign that I'm safe?

While one can stand even the smell of the rotting body…

What about your feelings, your values, while the decaying humanity and out of it?

The last drop of water left. The last drop of water left in the box, not even this one. He got offended, water killed himself. The water rotted. I don't know other than my name. So I have no way out through these walls and while I don't even know my name...

But what difference does it make from now on?

Humanity has rotted beyond the rot of water.