Lyack Glenwalker:
You look lonely, i can fix that...
Lyack Glenwalker:
Closer
Lyack Glenwalker:
Our ghosts
Lyack Glenwalker:
The care of the gaze
Lyack Glenwalker:
Poetry is a pile of snow in a world with salt in its hand
Lyack Glenwalker:
.: Morir Vivir :.
Lyack Glenwalker:
A r t s
Lyack Glenwalker:
R e l a x
Lyack Glenwalker:
Ty!
Lyack Glenwalker:
Boat night, of music, of stars
Lyack Glenwalker:
Do you know
Lyack Glenwalker:
Muted reflections fill the contrasts of the high air, float absently in the great restlessness of height
Lyack Glenwalker:
Fluid, the abandonment of the day ends
Lyack Glenwalker:
The more different a person is from me, the more real it seems to me, as it depends less on my subjectivity
Lyack Glenwalker:
If I write what I feel, it is because doing so lowers the fever of feeling
Lyack Glenwalker:
N.othing else....A little sun, a little breeze
Lyack Glenwalker:
M.ore than any wall, I have put up very high railings to delimit the garden of my being so that, seeing others perfectly, I exclude them and keep them strangers
Lyack Glenwalker:
W.aves mount...grow...change things.... Then, everything goes back to the way it was...but it's not the same....
Lyack Glenwalker:
O.verture
Lyack Glenwalker:
T.hink about the luck of not being understood..
