The reality itself

We're not afraid of the thousands of dead people passing in front of our house during the hours we watched to be scared of zombie movies. Today in the blue we live in the sky, we believe, living, talking, hug surrounded by the dead.

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The dead of thousands who confessed to the death of their dead looking deep into their eyes. Today is the dead of thousands who stormed in the face of the mirror and tried to persuade their mind to make reality a rough skin.

The queen of old sorrows, hiding the patches of past tense knees and old skirt that grow plants in tears in order not to lose the freshness of the past. Thousands of dead paragraphs we worship in the captivity of the old, which we did not even condescend to write a new one. The infinitely old thing that is believed to exist in the schizophrenic and dead monologue that is played over the farthest mountain that appears over the window.

Viking ship at the rhythmic speed of the paddles taken by the rowers, trying to reach a tiny boat in the future days mamış even born from unbornness, even uncertainty is uncertain and all the meteorological news appear more foggy hours in the order. The flow of time that the screw, which holds them together in the middle of the hands of the scorpion and minute hand, wins.

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When we do not decide what to leave and the next page is a long written book we read. And the middle brother: Today. The world is round in an old minded village. an old uncle who screams but nobody listens. A sandbox that everyone is in, but nobody looks forward or backwards from playing. The only thing we have is; The reality itself.

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