Written with blood

Sleeping deeper and deeper into lethargy, sometimes going back up towards the sun to take a breathe of air. Observing alien figures, chemical bonds which cannot work. Worms which slow come up from the damp, deteriorated core, pulsing and tired tissue, worn out and torn. Ghosts more alive than people, people more airy than ghosts. Strange places, cemeteries of desires. Dreams fall back, are forsaken, die alone on the road and are trampled on.
Passing by in front of you, men with voracious eyes and thoughts hidden behind a cigarette. Running without seeing you, interrupted girls and women lost in chasing their parfumes. More and more demanding, more and more empty, confused priorities, eyes which can't see and hearts able just to suffer. You get lost, stop and stay still. You feel extraneous, don't understand nor the places nor the people. What seems easy to you it's impossible to them, in the places of the mind where the appearance killed the essence. But when you're stripped of your skin, like of a clothing you're unworthy to don, like all of us, you are red: we all are books written with blood.