v.v.zhuk

so what?
it is February the eleventh, two thousand eleven.

days run on each other as a sweet blur of weightlessness.
one could see his own life going by this way with a smile on his deathbed.

(to be continued)

e.e.cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis