If I were a sculptor, my pride statue would be cold (low temperatures are needed for paper beauty preservation). Poetry is a luxurius form of pain-it cannot ache on a real body, inside real life skin it cannot breath. I'd take all world latitude to stand away from people-the dogs in the kitchen would cook their own bones (I guess by now you know why dogs find bones delicious). Afterwards (perhaps a glass of wine later), I'd shape a lucious woman-a cold stretch of black across blue. I'd call her Earth and wheep blood for her betrayal, even though I'd been mean to her. Although this text is worthless, I do enjoy skies and graves (and hide red moisture in tears).
This text is my participation to Phaedra's calling