Tears Of Heraclitus

The poet is, perhaps, the one who removes your skin constantly: day-night, and from time to time it is becoming smaller, as if from frequent washing, sits down and clinging, and he continues to stubbornly get into his shagreen, set with the wind, passers-by Screwtape, tickles gust slap, click, kiss, and despair seizes them, skin damp, uncomfortable pulls and squeaks, but the sail – the one that had not yet broken, and if hood, patched, – this open space and wind lying on the palms pure mind is already active, curious red and soul worries, and thoughts really drives Rockwell Kent – the violet distance. And so until they burst heart strings.