THE TEMPTATION OF BEING

Three in the morning; you just get up and stand there in the milky – white Dawn anxiety, and always that slow glow, that delusion that flows into the folds at three in the morning, lately you always feel on your face the otherworldly blue of the toilet, spaces splitting in the heart-there is no excuse for life, you say, just thrown there, it is also casual work, you wave, hope: as you imagine I'm going through a corpse stain of memories.

But somehow I can almost understand that you are always crammed with all the information in your head that the powers of the tabloid media, which are also manipulative, want to convey to me. The outside world has become too much. At such times, the living room will change, it will have an indescribable depth.

Objects start to mean something different to themselves. As if you had good old acquaintances, friends; you wipe the dust under them daily, the foci of a bunch of baka flakes. And you wonder, if you could confide with you alone their little secrets, what would they whisper to you in your hearing ears?!

You come home from work dead-tired at night and say, Damn it! Why can't you get a two-week paid vacation?! Because that is the sole privilege of your slave-driving bosses! While you are almost going through the mauling, driving your whole good-for-nothing life someday you will wake up to reality: you have been deceived, deceived, lied to, even to the millions who still believed that life would be better and maybe liveable!The iris of your eye is only half visible, like a partial eclipse, but there is no sadness in it.

So we'll be robbed looping our minutes fern leaf patterns sickle waning moons nowhere-no mothers watching us multiply our ranks with us...