...The morning comes, more awake than ever, then it falls asleep under your eyelids, it begs for you to look and see and contemplate and maybe read one of the fake eulogies of forgotten heroes, or poets or artists who never got to see their works appreciated.
You hear a voice, but cannot distinguish the words, they sound dim and circular, you hear a rhythm but the beat is irregular and wrong. You limitate by imposing the terms of right and wrong, but redeem yourself, pleading for an unlimited existence.
The smell of coffee makes you crawl, it's the one thing that attracts you towards thinking and acting. The papers cry with words that haven't been written or spoken.
How can you cry when nobody has taught you how to cry? Is suffering etched somewhere in our atoms of our being and we keep lying to ourselves, thinking that it's not? Suffering has been studied and reflected upon, but is it native? And happiness, is that native as well?
What's the use of all of this anyway...?