Camouflage indefinitely dim, just the sound of the wind blowing as the feet determine direction. This one, I once again recognized my spokesperson in it, read my poetry in it that no one has ever read? Splitting hanging roots and cutting. Examination of my palmistry until the voice subsided and the manifestation of history had fallen asleep in it. Still spilling anathematize on the mortal dream, on a non-existent setting, on the bereaved. Let's go! Prowling again under a warm blanket, staring at the sky under an empty plate without hope. Thank you for the grief stage. That's all and never came back.

IN IT, metronome 3AM