this shanked pretension still lives on in the remains of single words and lines.
the keyboard grows dark, as the fingers that play over them move invisible.
the void of which my books have been a consolation, of which my thoughts have been proud scaffoldings upon, descends.
To rebuild, when memories lurk fresh, and guilt remains.
You see, its a strange thing to look at yourself. One has never had the steel for happiness, for water flows downwards. To perceive yourself in decline, however many pretentious cloaks one adopts in the process, still makes one feel the intimate waste of life. Yes, however lacking, my silences are more able than my actions.
What is it like to be aware of emptiness, to flow with innate fervour along the shallow river of the seconds? The earth is something which one still forgets constantly.
I feel the pang of excitability around me, in this oddly infertile environment.
Loneliness and freedom mix to an etheral cocktail.
Is it excitement or is it insecurity?
Is it fun or is it anaesthesia?
Is it hope or is it fear?
Is it love or is it loneliness?
Is it Zen or is it death?
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