Playing ping pong with the devil

What you had not from the day,
the time, the life, everything that you saved as a paradise inside a bubble 

(which erupted). Fonds between kisses.
Unbreakable anyone who knew of anyone just to anyone.
Lost your time on what you have not had.
Night of stars, now denies the fascination of waiting - at least.
And you wait, which this is also like life: being alone! That you, between
sorrows, fall in love with new and large projects.
The emeralds
of Manoa, all the black pepper from India, or Atlantis, or Babylon,
the starting point where you are thrilled, after all, for nothing. Evil heroism?
Labyrinths only input? Conquest is the actual return to walk away from
rays of the sun, that shabby as tired lions that return from the hunt, you go home
with yourself between your teeth or your thoughts, no matter what the correct order
of yourself from what.
If so, rays emerge from doors that are not in the hours,
that is needed to meet a thing, losing it. As a sheet which falls on a
inexhaustible well, who begged the sick to know, who begged the tired to know,
the love is the sting of the disaffection.
Life, the decline. Begs for a gold mining with your own tired nails, the day, the mirages
of the desert, where more crumbs impossible, for stealing faded pearls,
or seek, or... wait!
It is elegant you walking through sleepwalkers-knights, pirates, callow troops, moving
land travels within the mirror, moving through
deadlocks.
Not as much as a traveler, more like a drowned
that everything still looks, until you see you with your wounded eyes.
Come to the surface still waiting, with great devotion, or vocation,
a tunnel, a jump (because, yes, there is an outlet for those who put math in
life). What?! There is an abyss! For inside where one jumps with great
strength of 'diving board'. Or vice versa.
Why you not just rely on what you count, running in between ziguezagues
worlds, navigating between disagreements.You know that no part of uprooted
flowers that started the field of dreams, are thrown to mute the anger from mutes
and will be without its owner.
The cry from without, that absent
between what is irrelevant and insane, and perplexed, and gaping,
and hurt. Or crazy. No matter. Or no longer no matter, no more.
Or just matter what
no matter. Within the mirrors that are always look, is recognized all
the hours, the hell with the infallible blows from the dark soul, the
opposite and infallible shadowy enemy which left heart.
you...
Expect! Or nothing of this. What
is in yourself is more out of you than inside. Or is
that is the opposite? Or anything like that, where you will see, only left himself to yourself
again and the devil than most you are afraid is laughing at you using your
own face.