Hay algo que nunca dije #31/57

Expression is nothing but decoration, someplace to place your eyes occasionally as you roll along, falling swiftly. // Read the wall: a cry for identity from a muddled pond of lost voices. // Need to be convinced about your capabilities to thrive in motion. Something bigger is always behind, haunting. Regrets tend to pile up. // An illusion of balance, reality is always tilted, lopsided, pushing rather forcefully towards the void. ¿Will there be a chance to rest?