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My life is the shadow of my death
which slips away under the light of hope.
Silvery dust of pain
force it to lift up and become the main point,
the shadow becomes body and the subjects its copy.
My pain as only positivity,
the one which outline me and erases me.
Mutilation, ruin and madness
as only cure for nothingness.
I'm Schiwa's object,
its puppet with broken leg.
My insanity as my lodging for ever.
Imploring figures
will be my only paintings.
Groans my only music.

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