Let the language follow the thoughts in an incoherent step, or let the emotions follow the words to a deeper valley. In an unconscious confession, the speed of thinking is never as fast as that of a wandering soul.
At first, behind the beauty is anxiety and anxiety, the illusion that turns into beauty itself, an extreme desire, an ambition to understand everything in the world. Imagine turning into a poisonous plant, into a cold-blooded lizard, into illogical dust, into some invisible single-celled creature, or even into an impurity floating in the universe that humans cannot observe... The easiest way to stay still is to understand their language, or even drop that understanding and talk to them with some kind of silence. The order of life is never maintained by clamor or claimed discovery, human beings are merely slaves of voice in their own civilized world.
I was trapped in a room with a high ceiling in northern architectural style. A huge sponge-like object without a shape slowly pushed my body toward the ceiling. Standing in a bottomless canyon, supported by a cloud or a magical stone, the surrounding walls slowly descended, my body became as fluffy as a sponge, and when I looked down, I could hear something. Voice, all the people fighting under my feet. Time and historical events are distorted in the room. Some people are as small as a fly, and the fly is as big as some ancient beast. The corpses of soldiers are dedicated to vultures. Wherever the vultures pass, there is the clear call of cuckoos. The sound of the bombing was like a dog barking, and all the noise suddenly disappeared in the chimney of the farmhouse. The chimney was just above my head, and I was like a big balloon floating on the roof, and I couldn't escape.
In my closed eyes, there was a large red, the harbinger of eternity. I see the best picture of man in front of a curtain, which is just a piece of wood leaning in front of a door, or a sickle thrown at random in a pool, something related to ancient labor, or ancient itself . Eventually a picture frame appeared before me, taking me into eternity, like some sort of miraculous call. In front of the door of death, there are many people like postmen who are eager to say hello. In front of them are low grass and winding paths. There are trees that never grow tall in the fields. I walked into it, unconsciously. walked towards them.
And at this moment, drowsiness struck. Who told me that drowsiness often strikes at such times.
View more about The Sacrifice reviews
