Time to sit down and write, these days I use time to avoid making time for tasks that give a million smiles to my soul.
What is time? Can we live our lives void of mundanes and Sundays to navigate space through time?
Maybe time is nothing but an hour glass, and each day we let slip, slips so with time, until.
Maybe time is overrated, maybe time ticks as a prison to keep us being, to keep us.
Can you think like me? Can you understand the ins and outs of a poet no longer man.
"Go hang" he told me. Although intended as gist, I couldn't help but realize that i've already been hung.
