My Soul Is An Empty Carousel At

For Me Writing Is Like Breathing. I Could Not Live Without Breathing And I Could Not Live Without Writing.

We Came By Night To The Fortunate Isles, And Lay Like Fish Under The Net Of Our Kisses.

Sometimes A Piece Of Sun Burned Like A Coin In My Hand.

With Your Name On My Mouth And A Kiss That Never Broke Away From Yours.

Oh Each Successive Night That Comes Has Something In It Of An Abandoned Ember That Is Slowly Burning Out, And It Falls Swathed In Ruins, Surrounded By Funereal Objects.