I will be what I was when I was gone. In my dream, a long-burnt root blooms. There in oblivion, on the pure bottom, my reflection is still o...

I will be what I was when I was gone. In my dream, a long-burnt root blooms. There in oblivion, on the pure bottom, my reflection is still outlined. Under the vault of my head, all hidden in constellations: circles without a center: a center without an end. Neither bigger nor smaller than a blade of ...