The ink impregnates the cornices. Part of chaos.
Lost in galleries, ripping off frames. Vomited canvases.
Feeling the stares of headless portraits. Defaced art.

Dramatically devoting my life to a chase...
To a chase that leads nowhere. Inspired by your malice.
Freshness eaten by trembling voices... That aren't here.

Non-existent talent. Subjective murder. Bulging notes...
But not a single note to myself. Reflections in cries.
Reflections in cries not heard by oneself. Hideous.

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