Orphanage for Frustrated Writers

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Dear fellow retired pen friends. Sunflowers that kiss the fresh wind and shape the clouds, birds with withered wings, trying to fly between the winter squalid branches, made up by the snow, cherished by the sun's rays. We are the eyes of a blind World who aspire to dream, mourn, and laugh without any reason. We are the stem that holds a beautiful rose, while we carry an aura of thorns. We suffer from heart, we are abstract engineers. We don't need money to acquire inspiration, we don't need to spend years chained to a desk to learn the bitter-sweetness sunset of life, we don't need diplomas in order to be listened. The World needs us and we need the World's heart. We live there, take care of it, while the same World feeds it with garbage. We have little time, but we don't know, because what can an outdated person like us do with a watch? The ink soaking our sheets and that sleeps in our fingertips is the blood that runs through this paved highway. Let's keep dreaming, because the world needs martyrs. From the apartment 203 of the building La Esmeralda in the Latin quarter in Milan, I send many greetings to all of you. I am a martyr of life, I'm a nap in the park during sunset, I'm a writer.