I hope with all my heart. That the blood pulses in the vein. So, here we are again, and of course, following the logic that, the world is a good place to live, again, when we forget the statistics.
Fictional writing learns to invent: things and more things. It seems that everything, in the purest truth, is everything, a big lie. There are still in this tale those who live dreaming of hope. Again these dreams of a world are common to all their ideals.
In the tale of the lost tales, the city is made of bread. It seems that the circus was forbidden even before time turned, what they now call, again and again, a normal world.
To continue here in fiction we don't need much, after all, ours has turned unreal, digital, and last but not least, a world of fictional writing.
I am a poet and I write short stories, imagine if it were true that I of truth were a lie.