.
hundred times yelled at the monitor screen that we do not defeat death would crush of digital promises that it would not come until a time ninety-nine send in touch rifle your hair, as cries of heroic struggle against the inevitable harbinger of early spectral decay.
Ninety-nine times and luster dims the best wallpapers for your face, and my last breath, while one hundred of the fist on top, covered your eyes forever, and nothing was seen, ever, ever again.
... and seeing nothing, not being, to be but is not, finally hit his head on the ceiling and my ironic stars lit up the back: he was lost, floating in a strange, lazy, and as I was absent from carried me high. I suffered for a moment, barely, fleeting passing of the world and life dedicated to keys and a small photo. I felt my little by little, I dilated my path and seas covering my smile, because they saw how great was the accomplishment, and the strength of my voice scream promised a hundred if not a thousand times more, if every hundred would mean loud deaths and tickets to the absence, the withdrawal of all but a bright place with those stars of glory, they had given me life, now I spectrum, by definition in contact with my dearest ghosts across the screen.
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