You leave magnifying impressions on torn pages. You’d never climb on a star empty-handed. Such is your grace. You like word plays and you like poetry storms. And everything is in your head, everything; silence, misty days, a plenitude of distinctly colored autumn leaves, folk songs, ink pens, jazz, musical organs and old typewriters. You are walking up and down in front of old churches without entering; you love the purposeless, the aimlessness, the eternal. And you love to feel the atoms of the air and not merely the air itself as a whole, you worship each rain drop separately as much as you love the sublimity of the rain in its entirety and you do not fear death; you only fear each and every abstract shadow behind people’s washed off, vacant eyes…❤

Sketch: Kurt Cobain

©️ Beatriz Esmer