Writing as a river is flowing,                                               Camus_Pott_Kerze_Tagebuch_sepia

rolling on, expecting to fly,

between the clouds, up to the sky.

No use for pretending in several terms,

not loosing the last religion.

All acting is passing by.

Listen to the river,

listen to the waves, listen to the words. What kind of melody? What kind of expression?

What kind of search? Between the thoughts, between the lines, between bestsellers & nonsellers. They all try to sell

their empty shells, their homeless minds. Battles in the field of markets, defending the great nothing.