In the relentless whitewashing of time, contours are wasting away. This time too, I will eat my liver out until I forget. It really seems I run out of breath again, in the middle of the race — no, not in the middle, much earlier indeed — when things had just started taking a vague shape. Regardless of it all, I will stay behind.
Hopeful, each time I start a minor venture, deeming it an ultimate possibility. And thus I want to absorb everything, everything until I burst. The ego swells, following the currents I float for a while. Until that impassable crevasse that is always the great divide between being and enduring is reached.
Within cracked banks of mediocrity I live.
Dispossessed, nibbling at days.