You built my House

There is beauty,
Says the sinner,
And she knows more of it than I ever have.

                                                                          He's every turn,
                                                                          And spits bilious laughter,
                                                                          Knows more of joy than I ever could.

                                                    Grey specks of eyes,
                                                    Earth and gravel,
                                                    A monument in decay.

You built my bones

It’s strange, that I’m alive as you read. Of course, I am alive in some other, ‘real’ world, myself, but here I am alive in you. With every word you read or moment you dedicate to a thought inhabited by me, I animate, my muscles twist, contract and thicken, my blood shifts, begins to pulse. But there isn’t really an I. Because the I you think of really is just you, and what you make of me is entirely what ‘I’ am. And what are you, beyond all the countless other I’s that have touched your life, not even just humans, but the unarticulated I’s of the trees and rocks and stars of your childhood? When you look at someone, anyone, anything, when you make me alive, really you are looking at an extension of you.

                  “mere shadows on the grey,
                  “he too like a passing day
                  “was already gone.

"-How iz forever?

       -Taking everyone."

A thousand dusks reflected over the film of your eyes.

I suppose it's clear that I write. I like to write. I write a lot, sometimes. Maybe that's part of the story I tell myself, the story of myself.
Am I close to something here?
There was always one thing I could never find the words for. One thing I could never write. Allways a series of drafts, scrapped when I saw they were redundant.

Was it like an Echo?

Hong Kong, weeks ago