del perduto sonno

about the lost sleep, about the whirl decline, about the cutted eddy, about the reverse tiredness. Lost sleep, near the wrong, into the baskets of mirrha, through the chairs claws. Search between the hands, on the brow, into the mirrors, into the smooth and dry hole, into the reversed wedge of the horizon. About the lost sleep, through blades of the motionless wind, over the vault crushed by the white window, now at the present, for nothing. This is the moment, that dissolute tiredness into the jailor’s caveau, into the vexer’s dresses, everything is removed, everything is re-visited into the mad robber’s shelves. You’ll be negroes, in the horrible incisions, in the obscene deformities. Despotic, jailor of extorted, come here to toast, come here to dance in this torture, I’m broken into the burning, I’m lost into the thin thirst. Again, seven, six, five, cat, zero. Zero, twisted for thousand, divided for hundred.