BIRDS IN HELL

You look up to the sky. You can already feel the intracranial bird. It is she who breaks bones, it is her feathers, burning in the acid of the soul, bursting from her chest in a hoarse cloudy vapor of breath. You want to fly too. You wanted to fly yesterday, you want it today and you want it tomorrow. Day after day, day after day, until the little fluffy rabbits of the day gnaw black holes in your anemic chest. Until they suck in them their sweet carrots of the fierce ruthlessness of life. You look up to the sky, pet your own rabbits and mummify yourself alive. Only the sky remains with you, in you, around, only the sky, only the sky ... But still, the sky is perhaps the most graceful poison.