Hipofrenia
We can wonder through the infinity of death
Never speaking about it
Sinking in the profane feeling of love
So deep rooted that we get to touch the stars
So pure that we are obligated to sacrifice ourselves for the constellations above
If we speak we ought not to cry
While our rotting brain crumbles apart in the living room we’ll be stealing hours out in the night
Moonlight embraces insanity
Love is the drug of the weak
In the end
It’s was always better to die than to speak
