my dearest white lady girl oh my
glommily blackened heart has been
yes thinking of you quite often why
i don't know for it's true i
have had my doubts to deny
it all which was foolish since i'd seen
your truth already when we'd still lie
to each other right inbetween
those strange days when we still would fry
just egg yolk instead of a single bean
such a long time after we'd cry
with a final tune by the head of queen
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You see, here you'll find poems and prose of opportunity and seasons. They're ours, though, so we have to protect them. Respect! Thank you!
Readers are welcome! If you are willing to follow the iconian path, you should know that it is always you we are talking to, even if it is not. And that everything is true, even if it is not. We all are eternally united in the last space possible where even the impossible is real. We ought to believe the foretold: If we'll meet tomorrow, next year, or never, it doesn't matter, it's only time! And everything, even time is fiction.
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