could be that line a truthful index? as every beat keeps in time with silence and we are amazed at the clearness of the secret. a clipping of nothing to peregrinate across the dream.
and since eyes become more acute and in the corners is captured even the lowest light, we move dragging each syllable , turning into void what explodes on the skin, at the edge of ourselves.
with nothing to disturb the calm, the silence of streets where shadows ran me aground. a ghost ship with a story to tell: here the noon is lord of fear and the word a sad figure that is hardly enough.