rubber man

It was something compelling that rubber man, it was something with the rain of canonies of pictures, very swollen features, and an eyelid withered to the last of life. I was consumed by all the seas of light, and I was shining to the farthest way.

Fear to swim in vain, not only. It is absurd to be freed in a house engraved in a memory yearning for youngness, your face the same, your clothes the same, your voice the same, and a ghost waving like the aura of an angel, and whispering to me, the homeland is not the same. Your neck is soft until your voice has not risen again and your sadness is amputated as endless stories. I branched out to thirty dry branches in the prime of spring, and I did not find a drop of water, as if a cloud hated my being in a lonely desert wasteland.

You were rubber with a tired throat, your friend is an owl and a homeland is still in a whirlpool floating in the unstoppable air.
Your hand is rubbery, never wave.
Just leaning on a sad tulip shelf.