The Thin Human Line and the Digital Explosion
You love the touch of your hand
Your body without floor
As on an orange bed of fog
It seems you do not hold hand
You are twelve feet tall
It is more sensual a road without frontiers
Nobody touches your footprints
A desire to open with your index finger
And your liquid-crystal eyes
a cloister with thousands of years
to polish the sound of your brain
and to walk farther than any limits
or directions sustaining all without a sound
and a body. Where the line ends or
if there is nobody it does not matter.
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