Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

Under a sky of cooled lava and dead suns, between faraway blood-red barriers, screaming anxieties in clear silence, in the agony of remote space, force fields scattered and shaken, sprinkled with infertile lapilli, life dries off in a serir of bones and while passing by you feel the harshness of what has no more voice or time, if not in stone, the soil of the dead. Along the road the tarmac cracks, the livid entropy wounds the walls, throws the debris into the muddy bottom of the liquid shipwrecks of the gaze, water in the lungs, numerator, blue marbled dreams, Morse code: the crazy, blinded anguish smiles from the dim landscape of the rooftops, a glass smile crept into the heart removing calendar shreds, the speeches of the stars, the embodied total map of destruction.

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