If I die, I will die. It is a state of rigor mortis, but no one notice my being of livor mortis...I don't need to know where to go, as you would not have known. I go as I would go, and it is just a flowery of gloomy dance. The path I trace does not fall into the orbit, and so I do not belong to anything, senseless, arbitrary. I go into the expandable telex field. Wave flows clockwise, and wave hits the amplitude. There is a boundary of the hollow out, an exploitation of all in nothing. Dragging out, I jerk myself down into the eternity of loss. I will be forgotten, as every droplet fails to return to the stream. The more it means, the more it will be buried. The hawks are flying, and I diffuse. I hide in the bushes for a forgiveness of immortality. I can be erased, simply with no effort. My wings slide on their own and I see my eyes rolling dash. It is an integration of separation. I pour my condensed particles into the irrigation drain, and slowly the new grown flowers join my shadow. I succumb, ain't I?
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