The People from the horror stories are out there.
The poetry of a people comes from the deep recesses of the unconscious, the irrational and the collective body of our ancestral memories.
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The poetry of a people comes from the deep recesses of the unconscious, the irrational and the collective body of our ancestral memories.
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Mark nodded even though she couldn't see. He'd suddenly lost any desire to talk, and his plans for a perfect day washed away with the stream. The memories. They never let him go, not even for a half hour. They always had to rush back in, bringing all the horror.
He felt more crypts cracking open inside of him; the stench he smelled was not decayed bodies but decayed memories, and that was somehow worse.
Very often people have a very limited way of thinking.
The paradoxical situation with a vast number of people today is that they are half asleep when awake, and half awake when asleep, or when they want to sleep.
There's no consciousness without senses and memories.