#37

[Trying to write some lines about nature, I immediately u-turn.]

 

Beauty, a mysterious shade, brooks no moorings. Nothing to say. I am empty of content, all that I contain is the world – and the world is empty. Paved streets, road signs, blue skies, fucking stuff. I blotted out and the world rushed in. It’s empty in here. The only mystery is Nature, that is the only thing that doesn’t resemble mere construct. Death’s shadow urges on like a taskmaster. But there is no task. Only Death. So find a task. Tick-tock-tock-tick.

Purge out these darknesses from time to time.

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