To Linne and our children

    I would be a courageous man to say with gentleness who I am. But ordinary circumstances are prevented by preventing strangers' rules. I will do what nothing can say. I am not just jumping over events.

    I see around those that say mouth out what they represent. I do not know it, and I am not a representation or agency bound with groups, parties, or anyway like a table of contents. This dysfunctional man shows an appearance, a skin that hides something invented, that what be who can be.

As asked thinkers from the past until now, I ask myself in all of human history: who are we?

Without what can be quotidian, I am a kind of soul that needs to exist despite 

literature with a filling that has as a place the space between essay and art. It is similar to what art history has produced so far.

    An essay is more like this: a position from science and art or free expression. It is less imperative in the academic world than literature in the cause.

    I create a convolution process in waves in which art and science are glued and integrated, not producing a significant difference. It creates a sensation of dubiousness, double sense, or more because it comes from that flexible structure. The end can be the beginning, or the poetic arrangement is conjunct in confluence with a scientific idea.

    That is the more imperious motive that I do not present myself, and the author is in two. These points live outside the quotidian, of the condition of a narrow workday, far from our daily history, rules, and concepts closed.

    From a particular form, it is correct. On the other hand, I have an ordinary life, my intent of creation is daily, and this process functions for overlap. It is because I said that I am jumping over everyday life.

    The costume of following the predicates of a drama of construction Aristotelic comes from romance theory, from poiesis theories, and categorization of a poem, sincerity, and helps the reader. It does not have barriers, detours, the preventive variability that inscription each moment with some confidence, same narratives organized into formalism.

    My work sometimes has other ways, and the reader turns more into a writer than a reader accustomed to a prior system. I love these forms, which produce some interest. Because of that, my writing is slightly different, strange, and not complex, but conflicted at some point.

    It is where people cannot read with more fluxing from understanding or understanding what I write as appropriation of meaning to creation of senses.

I do not think that someone can not enjoy this writing because, in a certain way, he encounters a similar position.

    This work has a direction to an end, contextualizing with the reader company.

If a window, for example, opens, very things can happen. The wind enters, the flies come to bring other insects, a loud voice from neighbors enters too, a sensation in the air, light from the atmosphere, a wealth that transforms, or other similar things.

    I know that can be good, and I know that can be strange for us.

So, I am here over your eyes or your perception.

No one changes or expels who always loves only for a comfortable idea, a philosophy or a genre case, or still more only a fashion model schedule of a hedonist mystery.

    It is not a program, a definitive scheme that someone is chained.

Leave me at the door with the chains closed, my hands and legs tied up. There is no sign of freedom. Your heart took my time and reached the end.

    You stand next to the house door where our life could be together, ordinary. You do nothing, and waiting for a movement is impossible.

Tonight I saw the bass light from our vintage lampshade and thought it was a treat of an episode between reading or sleep or maybe on the net, in the marketplace holding something.

    Now the raindrops on my body, filtering on my skin, reach my heart, and all washed love.

All the bright water entered my soul; imagine that inside myself. I felt like I could bulge it like a stretch, a stretching from the air that would give a power immense that I become a balloon or something that floated and rose, cleaning all my thoughts, a filter that activated with the movement.  

    Flattering is the blessed raindrops. More and more, I grew up there. All existence now of water made. The water escapes from micro holes in my skin. It is like a shower with a significant quantity of spots spraying a liquid made of light with water spray. I dissolve. I disappear.

    After a time, I am a light that has dismantled and is now an empty existence. I am avoiding passing because I drain with air pressure everywhere.

From where I think I am, I can see the house, the yard, through the recesses among woods, the tranch where was my office, under the floor I can walk, inner of the sofa, I can take the speed, touching the cover tissue of it, crossing your body, knowing what you are thinking, narrow sense. The secrets came from the last tears you left as materialized mem and that you let dry on your face. I saw the salt, the restless rest, then went.

    I knew what fear was, the emotions in movement with the misery of understanding and fast retreat by the motive of being a traditional bourgeois family girl that never might have concerns and divide them with others. I see them under your commandment, logic, and perception from a brightness of intelligence.

I want you to take me from where I am without what we are.

We must live together.

It still rains and is still in flux in all parts of our life.

If I remain here more and instant, all that I am will be all things that you are, and you will be what I am.

Linne, a trail, is made with will before walking. Is it not your parents, friends, or who can be suitable to take your life and to do what you want?

Coming here, Linne, I love you.

I am not here. I no longer exist in your and our life.

I never died. I never left you from my heart.

Linne, I can see you occlude your cell phone, change your message, and interweave what you will talk about before talking with new sensations and complex ideas. I can create trouble for you.

Linne, I will never do it. I need you to throw a little cresol on my dresses, close by the gate.

I see that you have prepared the magic mix. You are coming here, I see.

I feel the mystery that causes loneliness.

I come to myself, and all the particles of my being come together and materialize. I see you. The gate opens, the entrance, and we join hands. Children are laughing at the window, and they smell of cresol.

Dear ones, my mother cleaned me and disinfected me. I am no longer sorry for the fragile incoherence of social representation, the symbologies, and their boring narratives. I accept the small grandeur of the same things, the repetitions from waves dropped on shore. I get my pain and anguish to know that I would not do it if I could have medicine to save a life from reproductive thinking. Love is better, it is beyond the stupid incoherence - the inevitable and unsuitable.

A flowers portion it is not a bouquet.

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Bessie (in memoriam)