I have no clue to how I deceive myself. Many gray pictures, silver portraits, bleeding bamboo. How have we changed?The deep transgression, attacking our brains—something living therein, keeping accounts. Such dear indoctrination, embroidered by ethics, so inculcated, in finding guidance. A world for itself and against itself. To have craved by utter guts, misused, born to experience color. Torn and stressed-out, sable-eyed, fighting against great envy. I would drift through cities, so animated, if to escape pillows, falling apart come sunrise. It might destroy us, this course we face, such wantonness, to have lived through it. Many miles through mudslides; more phantoms inside; sheer excellence confronting deaths—a first breath explores kef. A world filled with religions, self-confusions, separated by self-deception: prison of unreachable ambition—dragging through sludge, humble relics, to have adored in minds adverse to change. With adoring life as foreseen, to suppose living, sheer strategies for further deception. Lessons learned, feathers plucked, to have seen one as a gift, to have been sheer naïve. Hearing it from within—troubles, neat indifference, still going through cycles. As under-flourishing, still surviving, an indecent legacy, to have felt proud nonetheless. To have loved unbeknownst to science, in imagining how change looks, by ultimate sacrifice. If debating art, looking into cryptic eyes, disputing what tomorrow looks like.
