Through designations we shall fulfill our correlations within the lines carved into palms.

I’m just standing here and there. Going through destinations written through the veins of my destiny. It else doesn’t make sense, I’m just a piece of a broken humanity: non-traceful, non-logical, with the glass of a pragmatism in an iron head.
I am a tree. I am deported by forces from above. There’s no sense but purity of feelings inside the dysfunctional body.
People cut my senses, bringing my harmony apart from the core. But I do live. I also do breath through cutting. There’s the sense and purity, there’s a reality and novelty. There’s me torn apart but functioning piece of nervous dots through bones filled with calcium.
I am vital. Nobody told me so. But somebody say and I smile tearing apart and then sewing myself together into a nice and warm blanket. The whole piece of understanding warms itself on an automatic mode.

Does it make sense? Am I alive?