Tons of question grow rapidly, like viruses that could kill you slowly.
Beneath your consciousness, you adore glory. You create and fight the multiple attacks of your own philosophy.
You build barriers around, still thinking, get infatuating: what else on the outside could sting?
And pleasure will always be a stereotype. Style in compact, beautifully packed and shaped. Then laughter and tears, love and hate, past and future: were all those things only satirically sheer?
There's no such spot in me which runs like dramatical folklore, because the only reason of all was only theory, and the rest of feelings: ignored.
Though, I will always be a sophomore. Trapped in previous and next, yesterday and tomorrow. I begin and end up everything, in common. I do life in rebound.
We are substantially made by invisible hand, and especially made by invisible love. The Unseen will always be the unseen, and the question will always be the question.... forever unravel.