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Confused and slow. That´s his style. He´d saw his own body dieing. Sit on the bench to look on his smell. He contested his fate. Sign your fear and immerse into the silent. Deep memorie´s wood. Memories of delight and trees. The artist under the candle-stick. He longs for a emtiness. Tragical gate waits for his hand. Long way for happiness. Poison watter is escape. He wrote last verse and lie down to the grave, cold and desperate like his heart. That´s world´s salvation and ingratitude to the life of hope. Nobody read about his illness. Never.
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