Elite-signs

Why so many empty, rainy, bumpy winters again? My cranky brain cells are still cherishing the formulas of certain answers before the irrefutable truth finally breaks out.

Winter's ether has ploughed bitter furrows into the palpable symmetries of the face. Wild, calculating, desperate sobs reign over the calvary of forlorn minutes.

Sooner or later, we may all emerge from the cesspools of the underpasses that once held the secret chambers of our souls. The days, like fatal creatures stupefied and dismembered, fall on and on into the echoes of themselves. As if no longer capable of creating a sense of wholeness.

Beyond the prison walls of Existence, there could be no one left to count the surviving and trapped signs of life, to feel something of what was given.The paralysed grimace of the dead cough still hovers, dances in the grimaces of lemon-acid faces: suspicious, no doubt of the rage.

In the penetrating mysteries of the eyes, this Kor has built modern instruments of scrutiny, who is worth knowing! The hump on the back is often the hump of fragmented happiness, and fragmented, thieving dreams are sooner disappointed by selfish and unworthy careers than hackers measuring their own performance.

We should reclaim, pearl by pearl, chain by chain, the precious, wasted mud that everyone paid to survive. We are being hunted. To many we are still invisible and insignificant!