Silence. Crumbling words, tired and worn out from overuse.
You 'd like to write something original, something no one has ever said before. Instead, you keep repeating the same ideas, phrase
after phrase. Inspiration used to be a current, an unstoppable waterfall. Now it resembles a drying well; you sweat for a few
drops of muddy water.

Bouncing moods. When you become accustomed to crying in
public places, deceiving yourself that you’re safe and invisible in the merciful embrace of anonymity, it's time to take a look around
and ask your self “what am I doing here?”. Expect no easy answers- or, rather, do not expect any answers at all. The question was
purely for exercise purposes. Rhetorical. Irresolvable. Wipe those tears from your eyes; no one shall take pity on you. You don't
deserve it, anyway.

Memories of a winter afternoon. Do you remember, I think I played my part well. I kept smiling. Afterwards my lips hurt from the effort. A performance of strength and spiritual greatness. It almost worked. If only you hadn't looked at me this way. What did you see, I wonder. Why do we continue this struggle of wills? Let us celebrate our immaculate ignorance.

Silence. I could have told you how it feels to fly. You didn't need my interference. Dancing in 87 dimensions constitutes a challenge of sorts. But no, you are the master of the deck, you've always known why the sky is blue; my offer was of little value. In other words, hope has began to stink of rotting allibis. A new sense of direction would be greatly appreciated.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our world of poetically futuristic piracy. Please follow the rules. Scan the horizon for abandoned promises. The winner earns a trip to the valley of madness.