So… What to do when everything it’s over? Will everything just stay behind? The silent nights as the darkness of the mind of forgotten lovers will become an infinite and empty void? The memories will be clouds in our “other side” sky. Something beautiful that makes our imagination flourish but we cannot touch it; just watch them slowly being dispelled by the breeze of time. Slowly. Half century is gone in half a minute. Where to walk throughout? By the way​​… walk or float? Would I float through the lightness of the soul or the lightness of my sins? I think the journey to the other side has to be made ​​above thorns and petals of wild flowers; On one side is a sun to purify the coming spirit; the other side there’s a sun to burn the spirit that is going away (or make it burn as a way to prepare it for ‘other’ place?)
I no longer can touch the walls; I cannot see them; I can just close my eyes and in seconds they turn on all the walls who heard my cries and saw my smile .So, how can I feel my feet touch all floors only by remembered now while I write this; bless that we only value what we have when we lose.
She can be by my side now (as it was with Liesel). Looking at me across her flawless black cape while my soul reflected in the incandescent glow of its scythe. Or not. Or yes. Who knows … Throughout my life we have played the chop picks up several times; and I can boast myself by having won it all this time (I mean … once I did everything to give the victory to her. But she,dont know why, rejected). What if she accepted? What if I had lost the game? Which of the two suns would be under my skin now? Where would be the defeated angel who was with me and the divine seed I always hesitate to germinate within me? For a foolish child which one of the stars of the sky would I be? Certainly not the brightest…
Where are they? Where they gone? Why is it forbidden to return? I think everyone over there feel enveloped by a motherly mantle. Yes, they walk by the thorns and flowers … but anesthetized by some motherhood protection and – maybe – the happiness of getting together with the other half of their hearts or souls
It’s everything so quiet … it’s everything so peaceful … it’s everything so… mortal.

It’s all blue and clear in the home of the fallen souls. Birds fly as inflame their lungs with the melody of freedom … Birds that feed of rotting meat by the sun that beautifies some eyes and punishes others (…) Can you see the evil angels sitting on the dream’ shaped clouds? They hold rosaries in their soft lil’ hands full of claws. In the morning the have the face of children. At night they drink child’s blood (…)
Take a look what’s behind the shaky handwriting of the young woman’s farewell letter. She is full of dreams destroyed by a false love. What’s behind the deposited hope and lost in a life? What’s behind these tears illuminated by the sunlight outside? What’s behind? What’s behind, you ask … Lies! Time is a lie. Love is a lie. Angels are a lie (…) Yes, angels are a lie (…) Even the truth is a lie sometimes. The bird that feeds on carrion and then flies happy and innocent in the horizon direction the sunlight makes much more truth than the most passionate of rotting creatures he devours. They do not try. And those who want to try, life does not give them chance. No, life does not like to give love to those who really want love. No, they, the creatures, not try. The birds try. And they fly. And because fly … they are always close to Paradise