Odd and even It's odd when the silence takes control and it extends through the empty house, rounding the mirror, dissolving itself on small pieces of roaring life outside. it's odd when the will fades and the strength is no more than a fable of heaven and hell regained. i stay, speechless, at the gates of this new kingdom i knew so well and try to imagine a whole seed waiting to blossom. i wonder if it evens the storm and the words and the window and the turning of seasons.

the house creaks. it is old and i am not waiting. too much light and no reflections. it's odd that everything seems as little as you are. the pain and the tear on the hinge of something other that death and birth. departure and arrival. dream and destiny.

we must come forward to receive, inside our own creation, a letter of dismissal. the rules have not changed. it is the game that is different.  ¶ 2:13 da manhã