Knowing thy self leaves you broken, and still too much remains unknowable. Beauty and futility. Mortality and ignorance. Tired eyes are merely allowed to watch as fearless hands take control and start writing. Not to think is to see the world as it really is: empty. Of meanings, of purposes, of certainties. Cease your struggling, chance will always have the last word.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, yesterday. Did you offer your present as a present to the vain gods of feigned security? Recurring themes may keep your weak spirit hostage. You told me not touch Time with bare hands, but I was never one to follow advice and now it’s over. Burnt fingers, the gradual build up of pain.

Belatedly realizing that the only price for freedom is death. Does loneliness hurt more when it’s translated as rejection, or when it springs from an innate need to break all chains and bonds and attachments? If only you could answer just one of my questions, maybe the sand in our hourglass of moments wouldn’t run out so fast.