On the mountain full of gemstones I could see the poverty of my bones, the skinniness of my fingers, and the uncomfortable gap between my skin and his jewels. Mounted convinced, invincible of yellow days and a puncture in my temples. From my cheeks I heard the whine enunciated by my lonely face, rising up my hunched neck. Oh curvature of discs and spine of this strong and movable neck that supports me.
I sensed the death of my spirit, but also the old age of being chained to a destiny of stones upon tides. Like the weather at the end of the month, there is a lot of fun music but also space for solitude.
The call for a new beginning for the morning after, the closing eclipse of this 31st night.
Ghosts over Genesis of all the choices we made.
Enough for the spirit of the skies that is wide, like blue solitude, and the place of tears in silver bubbles. For the steel rings and colored stones I wear, it is but a ritual. That I must weave to win and live on.
In all directions I begin and end, I come and go.
I am Russian superstition, the sale of a red bear, who wears jewelry and weapons, and who in the steppe feels a subtle headache while eating pizza and watching the sky of auroras.
State of peace. I am the destiny of a white hand, small and mystical. I believe in stars and angels, in stones and gamma rays. I am Russian superstition.
