If I had, one day, to sop my travel, I have never given away my pen.
On one hand, there are big words coming out my own space when time gives me a go. Still growing inside me. Hoping for a hardcover and hundreds of white pages to bloom one day. Kept as a secret still in my hard drive waiting to be ready to come to the world.
On the other hand, there are smaller ones… Poetic or not. Real or suspected. Flowing unexpectedly. Needing an immediate soil to land, a fleeting tribune. Those seek shelter here. In between two spiderwebs, two sleepless nights, two moods, two sets. They act as another journey, meant to dream and escape.
Fleeting Wor(l)ds 