Debris - bruises and irony

Strange is a small word in a lunatic world of mad stories.
But meaning is a stranger one still.
Closed in a carpet studio where meaning is muffled and red, where design meets circus and freaks of soviet past end up hung in the garden, crows of a white but innocent silence.
Carpet for the smooth and cleansing humor of ghosts too weak and impossible to answer back, design for the force of style in sacrifice, strange totems are raised
as of those who are bought each day.
To buy, hence to swallow an important amount of frames to fill with our desired images of responsibility, ethics sleeping in the twilight of a golden leaf...
Branches caressing her cheeks while she walks through forest of disordered symbols ending at the tip of my tongue when I see her to the door.
To see, and to be of an order very self-righteously rich in tears - tearing at the bed sheets of our shaken minds gone to blow the wind of our waves. Our waves.
Movement so strange, her cry is muffled by the starkness of our totem's color.