These days grow colder; perfectly represented in sunsets of blues and purples. Sunrises boast waves of clouds shimmering hopes of snow storms and flurries.
The outlines of countries burnt to retinas attached to the immovable body enslaved to a job well paid in currency, while all joy in spirit is spent needlessly.
TVs hung from the ceiling by a string thin enough for floss, while vines grow in and out of the eye sockets of its unsuspecting victims still entangled with needs of fictitious reality.
Piano keys and dots measured in millimeters catch attention from the voice speaking these written words in English accent, embarrassed by this strange admittance.
The dark is here now and it shows no sign of letting up until morning, lest I run the length of the world to catch up with the sunrise.
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