Helarte

The art is a border of feelings entrenched in the cup of the soul. This is what an artist does. For me, art is a spiritual sublimation. Art is a conceptual journey. I think the beauty of art is not to be an artificial one, because it is to be able to imitate it. Art is to die of cold, all the rest are conjectures. I spent the day begging to see what I find, always bouncing A long time ago, I didn't have time. Tell me, who can do it? Looking at the light, it only looks Turn around, if to change the world, there is no strength left. We change the planet, here no longer shit. Rebound, back home. Another beer embraced to the barangana and the other to the Ghana. I leave the mama to 6 AM in London where my mama is. With elegance, a new knot is the carcass, a motorcycle of Corbata. What I fall, it says more, that it is to be scratched. Written in pyjamas, tamed in the bed, collecting drab. I grow up inside, with roots, emacetas, my nerves in this body. Each time more dense, the art of synthesis in the notebook. Come see it, I get better in black holes and I disappear. I see that I'm ugly, then I give you fresh, fresh. I still keep on eating your leftovers. And I drink and I don't give a shit, with a cold that you shit with the face of a macrada and the cold hands, giving kisses and drinks, I bite your bragas and I resuscitate the nada on Sunday morning. Why don't you take me out of this cloaca full of rats? I write while the mine of the floor cuts me off with each rat. I float and I run towards the edge of the cat. I'm always walking, to see what I find, always wandering, A long time ago, I didn'take time, tell me who can do it. Looking at the opposite light, the sound looks Give yourself a turn, if you're going to change the world, we don't have any strength, we change from the planet. La long, only in the living room of the living room. Fuck, where is the hidden camera hidden? I've searched for every corner, this 3-way carton, it lands me on the moon. I'm the s There are civil wars in my grave. I'm the bull and the bull, the angel and the demon. I'my illusion and your desire to finish everything. I open the curtains and I deform. Another face of the same face, of this broken toy. The world moves by morgue and under the lights, we are all porn actors. Also, I notice it in your eyes when we left, something less than friends. And now on Sundays, I take out breakfast, the pasta from last week's Friday, and I eat them cold, both yours and mine. What do the wings serve? If you don't get out of the cage, you're a lucky man, you've had the opportunity. There's no excuse for you to leave. I'm going to turn the planet around to prove that the Earth is not flat, I don't believe in anything anymore. In case you screw me on the edge and I fall, I'm going to see what I find, always bouncing, It's been a while since I've had time, tell me who can do it. Looking back at the light, only the shadows are left. Turn around, if to change the world we don't have strength left. Let's change the planet, here we don't give a shit anymore.