The Sleepless Flaneur

 The document under analysis is a contemporary photograph. There is a middle-aged woman who is wearing a green jacket, a multi-colored plain-woven foulard, white earrings and a bracelet in her left hand. She is leaning her left hand on a tattered blue bar which creates a barrier between her and the figure she is trying to paint. Her eyes are goggled at the wall while her right hand is carrying a paint brush between her thumb and index finger. She is trying to paint a male figure. The skin of the foregoing figure is dark and yellow. He averted his eyes and to some extent he gives a stilted gaze. Next to the male figure we can see a couple of white flowers placed at the left corner.         We can interpret the aforementioned photograph in a multiplicity of ways. The colors used in the photograph represent a sense of serenity and harmony. The blue bar and some of the white scratches on it mark the periodic rise and fall of the sea level which reflects upon th...

My skin is plastic. he beclouds me, Shot by his cross-bow. I am mummified. Entombed by fragrant shroud, sweet-scented each night. I am molded and crowned by his mud and blood. Each time I revolve. The shimmering light, crawls to my eyes. Marred by his shape. The emerald grass, scatter along the epitaph. It howls at the undertaker. Shielded by the fading voices. I absorb each echo, with a pool of mystic eyes. Worms feast on my breasts. My head a home for the cries, a phalanx with swords. I lay down forlorn, a dehydrated corpse. Sautéed before the dawn. Dethroned by him, scrubbed by his eyes. The water was salty. A naked incubus. he mutes me, yet I shriek again. I hear his prayer, scratching my veins. I remedy myself. Only for his skin, to beautify its wrinkles, against the clammy air. Tomorrow shall visit, with no appointment. Welcomed by I. So the shroud shall be, a banner of gleam, Over the dark swamp.

A: I don't have a Calender. B: What a jaded and tarnished view.! A: I might come tomorrow. B: Tomorrow won't come tomorrow. A: Maybe today. B: Maybe yesterday. A: I don't know. B: What is tomorrow if it is not a present procrastinated or a past that didn't catch the train of midnight.? A: I have lost my ticket.

The legends of the first painted by fire gods and demons. How can I paint you and I am between fire and water? Drowning has become a refuge... And fire became a light, like your eyes The blackness of the universe is tiring. Your eyes are as black as the light before the dawn. You're beautiful like the church hymns in the evening. As the day of resurrection and the last call. And sweet as the dew drops... Like the voice of revolution and poetry of the left. Painting needs a brush. And legend needs history. And church bells need a saint. And your laugh erases the spheres and all the legends and history I keep an eye on you in the nebula of the universe. And curse December and all the endings. And I see you sitting on the poetry ladder. Where the alphabets stand in astonishment...

Hell is another realm of truth transformed into a heaven forgotten and forsaken. It is a duality of both good and evil, married in a coffin and divorced in a tomb. What is this existence?, It is a shadowy circus that frowns and nods and make people applaud and watch the clock. It made them swallow the sand to rest and walk on it to reach the chair of rest, in a weary path which is motionless and paralysed, promising nothing and calling for nothing more than nothing.

In a long obscure and forlorn route, haunted by fallen leaves and passing winds.  A wind that is murmuring and blowing in a strange city. An inclement and murky vision dominated the miles ahead and the bushes were covered by plastic waste and only thistles are gazing at the soiled asphalt.  Atreus was like a wandering sheep in this city, with no one to take his hand or keep him company. Suddenly, untypical things happened on this Saturday night. His head felt unsteady, a huge wave of dizziness swept over him so violently, and the street began to spin in a zigzagged way. In the next minute, his heart started to beat and leap-up like a soccer ball bouncing on the floor.  Almost immediately he struggled to get his breath as he placed his hands over his eyes and pressed his forehead feebly and continuously. His mind was clouded in a swirl of different images like a whirling eddy. Sweat seemed to engulf and overwhelm him from everywhere and every gaze was like a touch of tor...

Atreus straightened and cleared his throat and he was trying with a glimmer of hope to keep the words in his mind. The weather was warm with never-ending puffy clouds, suggesting rain later in the day. He slipped his hands on his coat pocket, And despite the crowdness of the passers and the hustle and bustle, he found in a glimpse a poor cat going in a painful walk and his head was low and his tail hung lifelessly. As weakness and jellification seemed to opiate and hypnosis his tired aching muscles like a jellyfish. He diminished and dwindled in size and his fur becomes dirty no longer soft or fluffy. But he was moving fearless uncaring about the passers like a captain marching through the dim sea or an emperor with his own majesty, going straight to the Trash container with an unbowed head. Atreus was well-renowned for his magnanimity and pride, he narrowed his eyes and moved cautiously and his voice trails off along with his gaze asking about the cat's life clenching his yellow...