Poet, biologist, artist.
In a word: Leonardo is at the garbage dump of our time. During her life, the author in various forms, wanted to convey her life on Avenue N. Without a strict system – just observations & poetic sketches.
For the more thoughtful: in the verses there is nothing but poetic rubbish of predatory thoughts, without scale and rhythm. Somewhere they were groping with female endings in jackets with red windiness with star-shimmering geometry of inspiration. Among the thousands of doors of noisy and unofficial painful censorship arrogance, where the hero does not see further than the tiled rooms of the past, and fits these images into the modern-biblical plot of the bedside table of the motel where the Holy Book sleeps.
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