THE INTIMATE SPEAKING OF ABSENCE

It's no longer a self-sufficient, magical fad. Fate cut into the uneven, wide space undrawn. Start and End are two well-thought-out symbiosis platforms. Body and shape are already a prisoner of cheap, small style. I should see you even if I continue. In the pitiful crumbs of visions, I cannot exist only alone, only in a couple.

As a shapeshifter, it is always only in the curvature of an opposite side, on the crystal field of mirrors. I would prefer to exchange life, legend, fairy tale, so that I could rush here and there in my dwindling time, like a tiny, tame day laborer of the Universe. Crouching, squirming, the clamor of perpatvar-level quarrels had long since gone out of me, only the humility of the quiet sheet of paper could remain, which can fill the total lack in any case.

The intimate wordlessness of the creation is even electrifying. I question my non-existent memories and ask: What kind of person would I have become if I totally forgot everything and changed?! The solid daylight of realization - late - is dwindling in brainwashed heads. On the threshold of the unpredictable future, we may only meet the one who is absolutely necessary. Nowadays, they arrogantly and carelessly violate the silence, the sacred solitude of secret peace of mind, again and again.

- Faces, the Janus-faced condemnation of Konok stares at me menacingly. I can't decide, so who can I trust after thirty?! Even now, razor-sharp blades are cleaving new and more creative thoughts in my mind. My self-time can never be complete or enough. In the fibers of moving relationships, something is always finite and broken. It is not yet possible for me to become petrified, to be forgotten forever after all the opportunities have passed. A rhythmic change that rips into my flesh. Can suicide be avoided in front of light barriers?!