Pilgrim ghosts

 
We stumble upon a cemetery a day, a crypt-smelling Pantheon. The uncertain unknown hell is chasing our increasingly upset souls. They carve cryptic connections into infinite Time instead of themselves.

What kind of life ends in birth, since death can interrupt and confuse everything ?! – We can watch for tiny signs until our cheap memories strike. No matter how he speaks to us, the dead will always be unfriendly and monotonous at first.

He deliberately takes the paid silver money off his closed eyes. He doesn't want to hide behind anything anymore. Can a sea of grief fit in tight-framed, grim crypts? Her tears are also tiny spikes, glassy rose thorns. His big dentures and ordas' beard are also transparent. His old-flavored bones are mardossed by the worms of hell. in the way of ghost figures visible to float behind their mouth-watering snarls.

After all, their lives are inventory shit. They pursue neglected scares in themselves for lack of a better profession. Here, the disembodied compromise of all living and dead matter is common. For example, dust and ash compounds have made all sober human morality incomplete.

Would you strive for equals with earth, or for deeper unity of destiny, deliberately deceiving our senses with counter-arguments to actually pull out the shorter one? – The insidious intrigues should have been hidden, the seeds of false enlightenment until it is too late for the past, peaceful generation to raise us can no longer be the same as they used to be.

They arrived and left the scene, like enthusiastic pilgrims. Our home –, which has become small, underworld continents, is already being carried together at the border of Beginning and End.