Author of quotes: Rena Niobium

I am the eternal wanderer of this life, the wild beast, which, not yet angry, restless crowd of others-ordinates in search of something native in order to appease its roaring and burnt animal heart.

You're perusing me, but without a hint of the assessment, without the slightest drop of poison in which people are so diligent and trying hard to drown, as it were unassumingly kind, seeing only small children or people with unusual human kind, tender heart.

I'm ready to get rid of this cross, pouring lead in my silent heart, without another word. And anyway, what will happen after. If at all.

To go beyond, you need to know where their boundaries are.

My mind is empty as drain pipes,
Like the nests of birds, has left the house.
No fresh thoughts swirling flow
In my mind painful.
My mind is clear as a nymph Oreada.
My mind is pure, like a child.
And because eternity will fall
In the abyss, his life aimless dragging.
My mind is steel, that is firmly tempered.
He himself laid the Foundation.
My mind, like the musket that the charge,
And threw it on the ground that there is strength.

The city. Of a busy street. A little cracked asphalt of the road. Large, bulky building, it is unclear why organised here, loaded and bumping each other. The grey crowd by the color its like a dirty ash or smoke, which usually release pipe plant, and turned into a single mass, a mess. Searing light wind, with the noise of passing going into the unknown of people and by me. Past me.

Happiness. What is it? Something warm or chilling? Something sugary, maybe too sugary, something sickeningly treacly, sticky, richly flavored glucose?
For each of us, this concept has only an individual value. We think subjectively, and because our values may seem to someone simple notorious a thing, which can be purchased at any kiosk.

It was quite different
As if drawn by the brush of Picasso.
Involuntarily her eyes frozen remember
And white as marble, his dead face.

Of my escaped birds
Breaking my back wing.
And steel heavy duty spokes
I stabbed between the ribs with a jerk.

"The eyes are the mirror of the soul" the absurdity and nonsense. And how can we know the insides of a person if his eyes are empty? So, there is no soul of this man? No soul, no mind, no heart?

Your anguished heart is torn to pieces. But strong steel, in which it was clothed, hardened even more.

And you burn in the flames of self-prostration; impotence, organic substance in oxygen.

You never feared to be accused of unbelief, you were afraid to lose in front of the greatness of what you so humbly and shyly inclined.

My soul is the coal-black and smeared with Shoe Polish, but lyrical and outlive like a velvety cat fur, sun-shiny and malleable, so responsive to every touch. No, not at all gentle. Just a little bit, just a little bit. I'd be willing to cuddle up to every passer-by, ready to fawn on me, to RUB the feet of a random counter, but no one will even stop and look. No.