is late, it's early, who cares? concepts are entirely relative. is time, it is always time, the only thing that is absolute, there is time, flows, inexorably, towards one direction.
and are now squeezed between the folds of my room, very heavy and horribly wide. I eat the white. The white I disintegrate. The white complements me. white. white. is all around me.
And now I'm lost in thoughts do not exist yet real, and my conscience has appetite to feed: Presented to his banquet, the world, and saziala as only you can, and means that these thoughts do not give me more trouble.
My weight is able to express my substance too, and now I know what or who it is singing. Maybe it's just the ravings of a man tired? Or the anguish of a man tired? How many meanings can the term be tired? I do not know, perhaps many, surely a couple. And now I am going to leave this place, because now dawning, and it is time to sleep.
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