Moll eponine Cuervo

Writing rises in my spine dragon-like, spiting petals spiting stars ... Ah ... but the clouds... the dark clouds, the lighting... It is thunder what boils inside my belly. Thunder, that monster's laughter. I grab the rope of language, its bitter, acid taste burns my hands. Thankful by "default", I cherish the way where observation became habit. Beauty might be the highest step in the stairwell of sensation.
Sensuality is being. Erotica is mind. Eponine Cuervo Moll