Finding memories spinning around, flying off of ceiling fans and onto floors of dirt and dust.
Completely cornering decisive motions, enveloping all ideas as they protrude from evenings calamities.
Touching picturesque visions with each moment of factual information.
Shoving all movements into a sheltered abode, away from punctual deliveries, absenting itself from existential arguments of foregone conclusions, while parting ways with non-existent truths.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem