Where could the cloud flow, if not heading to the next precipitated moment of dissolution? A day can be as long as the unforgettable thickness, and now the senses start to succumb, from nowhere when the next flash implies its staging, the sky is still. Nobody can stop the time, even if memory counts down... I am reminded of the salutation of a stranger, who appears in the world before fading away again into the horizon. A shadow behind the scene shrinks, and whoever may wait for the next visit. Anything before the death worth a glance of heavenly recall. We have been riding that fast and the wind forgave, long winding sign, and another unknown symbol of destined puzzle. Yeah, on the shading light hides the conscious differentiation of beauty. Cooling down, again, and the visage is only yet another solar reflected joy. The candle light tastes of some burn-out ecstasy. I guess we are afraid of the next dusty storm. Sleep well.
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