Book: The Part Of Improvisation. Page 12
Do not make the limits of understanding. Here thy words, fast ants are running in the belly of the monitor, slip on my eyes, drowning in failure of the pupil, but this is not the limit. Here your voice, colouring, child, colorful hues of emotions flowing in me, echoing on the membrane of the senses, but this is not the limit. Here's a look at yours, to support, to stubbornness, stupid screaming outside your heart flutter under my hand, but this is not the limit.
Do not make the proximity limit. Here your skin, elastic veil of heat, wet invitation to a kiss, and I draw on her fingers the words of the spell, but this is not the limit. That's your passion, burning inside, burning inside the soul, instinctively shrinking from the light, but this is not the limit. Here thy breath, the salty thirst, penetrating into my lungs in divorce sharpened love, but this is not the limit.
Don't limit life. That's spring in the blood dancing in his madness, falling into the sky, tearing apart clouds of thoughts on the scarlet strip of sunset, but this is not the limit. Here the sea rushes into your chest, takeoff from a cliff, stun desire to be, scatters the spray of happiness in density of laughter, soft flowing on a naked body, but this is not the limit. That's life, knocking down, prisivashya to the shoulders ridiculous wings, yours, only yours, infinitely deep, painfully bright, rising wind and falling cherry flowers in outstretched hands, but this is not the limit.. And smashed in the hands of the petals, do not make the limit of death.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:41
I walked to where the city ends. I walked through the bustling streets, where colorful cars turn into black-and-white people with sad eyes, and the lights of the highways dazzle the eye and maddening the beautiful night. I walked across the dusty roofs of houses, where stray cats can smell crazy spring, and the wild doves eat from the hands, watching with round eyes for an awkward funny person who has brought in the pockets of the bread. I walked through the parks, where the symmetry of flowers adjusted to the angularity, but children's laughter is heard more often. I walked to where the city ends. Where you and I sit down on the beach and will look into slowly red in the horizon, not in a hurry, telling each other nonsense and laughing shared memories. But where was the out one city, the other begins. And again hooted the car, were going out of the train, people were rushing to live, knocking the feet of random Rosa, and someone else wanted us... We had a short goodbye with a handshake, we ran for, infinitely reflected in growing in the eyes of the Windows, we talked about the most important, but flew the plane and the sound of our voices melted... then it snowed. As if from nowhere. As if a miracle. Just one morning we woke up, left the house, and the city was no more. Was the wilderness, the starry sky under my feet, there was light and there was silence. And then I looked up, staring into the blueness, and understand where the city ends.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:40
And the end of the world... What if the end light, then I'll teach you to love darkness.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:40
Blind human faith in miracles, blind, naive and dense. But while the crowd of fanatical, out of boredom, going crazy people put canned in dusty closets, a miracle occurs. It is in this pale sky, greedily twisted black branches of naked trees, it is in these sleepy birds, it in a dizzying dance of snow outside the window. It is in these funny men, it has in the us. It's everywhere.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:40
You know, when you sleep at night when outdoor light falls on your face, I draw your eyes. Clumsily, tools sleepy imagination I come up with them open. Blue as the sea, or black, like coffee, doesn't matter. Only one thing is important, that they were looking at me. So I looked into them. Because I know morning will spin life, zamechal us into the dough fuss, crafty will whisper in lost soul funny ridiculous things you forget again just turn and look at me, and I again forget to tell you something important, hidden deep in the heart. But the next night I again won't sleep. I'll draw your eyes. Maybe one day the scales of fate outweigh this grey sky, falling in puddles, these racing anywhere in the car, spray the wheels stagnant loneliness, and we take a pause in the noise of the city, hold hands, just as in early childhood, and you look at me the painted one night eyes.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:39
History is written by the winners. But what is more important for a person who can love, who feels the world more acute every day: etched in the books the story of the birth of the Kingdom or immortalized in funny children's picture story of the birth of his own son?
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:39
How easy sometimes to love the ships. In the difficult days when the sky is falling apart, when fate is tied in tight knots, salted troubles when your man from the prop turns into a strike, when no more strength to open your eyes and see all the same: the wall of the house outside the window, not waste, nedomytye the dishes, boring work, insincere friends, unpaid bills for life. When things, life, weather, migraines, fights turn into a single meaningless grey lettering... it is so easy these days to love the ships. And close my eyes, to see the snow-white sails taut in the gusts dense to vertigo the wind, and almost feel underfoot unreliable thin the deck, the only barrier between you and relentlessly beautiful ocean.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:39
Autumn in the soul of man. Like spring, summer, any season, any weather. And so the same rain someone with joy and anticipation of the cleansing will substitute your hands and another will frown heavily, whisk in the random stream in my arms tighter will tighten the coat. Weather in us, and the rain... it just goes. Devoid of shades of good and evil, joy and sorrow, the rain comes through our souls.
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MegaMozg 11-01-2017 / 12:38
