In the institute of time, I fade into flayed fragments of a forgotten past. My dreams entitled me to nothing. The meridian skies pass over and we find dust in the dusk. The ingredients of forgotten memories, feel somewhat forced into a new setting. I take photographs to remind myself I'm still alive. Only I wish it was a real camera.
Tomorrow sets the start of the stumbling blocks. I'm out again to deal with another life in another tangent. But of course they look the same, they always do. I'm not part of a process but a segment of what has been and what will be. I thought we could radiate into something beautiful but we're poisonously poised into something not quite the sum of its parts. But then who is in this life?
You're an old foe but full of woe. A familiar story that helps us battle on. The entitlement of something else that will not quite be as possible as before. And you said you owned me. That it's too late to back out now. Not that it matters but you rather force the point through. There's always exits that exist but then I could feel my own sense of shame falling on me if I turned the latch.
I take photographs to remind myself I'm still alive. Only I wish they were real. The meridian skies wouldn't feel so special anymore. The difference in our mindsets is that of a programme switch. I hold you and you hold me. We're not so special. The greatness of our lies is that we cope with them. But then you tell me I could so much better. It makes me feel as if you belittle the two of us in a condescending streak.
I take photographs. Doesn't matter which way it goes. It all makes sense in the end. Doesn't it?
Tomorrow sets the start of the stumbling blocks. I'm out again to deal with another life in another tangent. But of course they look the same, they always do. I'm not part of a process but a segment of what has been and what will be. I thought we could radiate into something beautiful but we're poisonously poised into something not quite the sum of its parts. But then who is in this life?
You're an old foe but full of woe. A familiar story that helps us battle on. The entitlement of something else that will not quite be as possible as before. And you said you owned me. That it's too late to back out now. Not that it matters but you rather force the point through. There's always exits that exist but then I could feel my own sense of shame falling on me if I turned the latch.
I take photographs to remind myself I'm still alive. Only I wish they were real. The meridian skies wouldn't feel so special anymore. The difference in our mindsets is that of a programme switch. I hold you and you hold me. We're not so special. The greatness of our lies is that we cope with them. But then you tell me I could so much better. It makes me feel as if you belittle the two of us in a condescending streak.
I take photographs. Doesn't matter which way it goes. It all makes sense in the end. Doesn't it?
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