Words weren’t written.
To show the love or anticipating death. To become the smoke whose reflection in the mirror was unclear. The mirror, confused ontologically, couldn’t decipher the main assets, or characteristics, of the own essence of the words. They remained lonely without anyone who would understand them. They knew how different they were to the people, reckless enough, to partake in a night with them. They felt segregated from their own language, their own womb were the beginning and the end have no concept. Were if being written or not is not a worthwhile distinction to assume, as they both blend into nuances impossible to distinguish. Like satisfaction, pleasure and love. Concepts close enough like numbers that approximate but never touch seemingly, as people hug and the warmth of the skin unleashes a sudden flow of emotions of all kinds. Emotions that, juxtaposed, contradicting themselves, like fear to loss and calmness to be in the infinite moment with the other one, the other concept. People usually forget the importance of remembering how we are a bunch of syntactical concepts. Images creatively created by our own organisms, which become one of us, they become internal to us, inextricable parts of us. Looking for love, or fear, or red, or another mirror, will only expose us to more concepts, diversly diverging, writting ourselves, more profoundly, in this life made of words.