by Joshua Otto
Once upon a time, there was one who gave up remembering
and became divisible. Long before that, another once had
explained the limited utility of one’s telling in detailed,
cotidian scenarios: Laughing, don’t quit yet, I’m counting on you.
I cannot make promises without spilling regrets.
On such beaches, musical waves are spelt to die. Who
is willing to sing with such heart? Through the smoke of a pipe
I see your silhouette pinned to the wrist of the melody.
Every geography is mapped in the record of your voice.
and became divisible. Long before that, another once had
explained the limited utility of one’s telling in detailed,
cotidian scenarios: Laughing, don’t quit yet, I’m counting on you.
I cannot make promises without spilling regrets.
On such beaches, musical waves are spelt to die. Who
is willing to sing with such heart? Through the smoke of a pipe
I see your silhouette pinned to the wrist of the melody.
Every geography is mapped in the record of your voice.