Another flower

    Yes. The moment of a dark silence. The street. It's lovely when there aren't any cars. No sound. And the square when there aren't any passers by. It's empty. Butterflies. They don't move wings. They just glide. No sound. What color is a butterfly's blood? Is it transparent? Like air?
    Only when it's dark and quiet, the line between beauty and monstrousness fades. The line between truth and lie. Love and hate. It also fades. Everything is the view through a window. Blue curtains always blocks it. Always at the same time. 
    But the sound rushes in. And it won't quit. Everything seems weird. There's no one around. Who's making that noise? The switch is pulled. There's no one caring anymore. 
    They exist in lies that were created. They want to be somewhere, but they aren't there. They are stuck. They are forsaken. They exist in memories and dreams that aren't meant to be. There is a kind of people in this world. Somnambulists who wouldn't be. They wait for a moment of relief. A moment when everything is blocked by curtains of the color blue.
    And all of this is just another flower on the grave of an unknown absurd.