.
"We'll put the legend over the history, the beauty over the truth; the heart over everything..."
Belisa has wings...
No: she hasn't wings.
But her eyes and her sea.
[Belisa lives in a reverie into a crystal cage into a crystal cage into a crystal cage...]*
In the night of Saint John, high bonfire; urine of male cat, cult de lluna.
Il, basque moon; Illargi: light of death...
L'intruse is a cold wind.
Ne pas savoir où l'on est, ne pas savoir d'où l'on vient.
Ne pas savoir où l'on va...
The death as company and friend. Love...love...i feel the flies of Sartre around my head: i'm lamentable.
[She was slept like in a dream of haze and glass.
Her garden was visited by the nylon of the atomic motherwomb every night of her whines.
Like in a dream of haze. A Cocteau dream.
Ocean, ocean, ocean.
The chaos is not iberian.]
BelisaVal.
I was watching the road, waiting for the bagpiper.
The bonfires are set on fire at midnight...
.
