bizarre… bizarre… bizarre… — Bizarre how the artists hypnotize me with their own voice and instruments. Bizarre, because while they’re coddling their own devices, they’re taking care to beautify me, painting me tunefully with their music, using the magic powers of notes and words, while simultaneously, they’re telling their own ravishing story, inspiring me to…

with the authentic explanations — I love you… I love you in the grams of my soul with the cadences of my imaginations I love you in the degrees of my body with the liters of my blood I love you in the magnetism of my thoughts with the seconds of my existence I love…

He… She… ╱ [02] — He asked her, — why would I wanna be today a paintbrush, milady? and She replied to him, — perhaps your feelings wanna interpolate with mine perhaps you wanna inserting your technique and poetic colors to portray me as you love it… perhaps… at his turn, he smiled and replied…

Do you remember… — Which’s the one that talked much more about us, — the sound of the day or the sound of the night? What’s night’s name which made us look gorgeous? But of the day which made us look even better? Do you still hear whispers of the sun and the moon? …

…in a Bohemian dialect — I am the title of the poetry the argument of the essay I’m glazed in a prose style with one’s poetic essence I start when the page ends to navigate into your mind I’m like the morning coffee and blood-red wine at night I am the symbiote of loves and as…