Regret Box

The window, heart-shaped, draws its own curtains. We move through it pretending to be shadows from another time. A thing that can't be tagged won't have hurt sticking to it. There is a desert with Ra hovering like the eye of an eagle, trained to spot movement. Among all the anarchy inside this giant mind of a universe, a dream is a stilled centre.

It is there where we are headed to, our clothes shed everywhere like an orgy of molting, our skins shed like discarded bodies.

The only way to get around a regret is to collect every bit of it from the coils of thought. They call it art, penance, therapy ... death.

We sit under walls with cupped palms and the colors of the viscous merge and mate with cliched shapes till Venus seems to read like Us and the faces are blurred into anonymity. There is no way to get off this saucer.

The cup is a mirage painted by tired limbs and beyond the hearts and the butterflies is a single night not colored with psychedelic wants, just a cool river breeze of a night ... You see ... the regret can no longer be replaced in a box and instead hangs like the last leaf from a branch. It keeps us alive till we keep it breathing.

Breath infinity, soul crossover, forced re-entry
A newborn cries