Any devotion in the touching field of melancholy beautifies the neighbour's light. If the flame ignites its distant fidelity, the call's word imagines itself safe, the voice's acceptance complete. That depth touches only parts of its self, losing itself in the losing glow, towards the unfulfilled dreams. Sucked all the binding link, faithfully chosen. The lack of thought creates needs, the fulfilment of which adorns a counterpart, spurred on by inauthentic being. That speechlessness, striving towards its own wonders, forms the words sound of the other's will, impoverished in self-expression. Every life full, turned to the circumlocution of action, seeing in abundance the image of the near, all distance unadorned. Be it for the loss of all in the gain of the truthful.
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