"When these objects strip off their function and put on the context that I created, how many millions of times were they produced before no longer matters."
All the destructive suspicions zigzagging around the orbits of my mind were actually made up of primitive codes written in another galaxy.
What do you dream of when time and space are out of your reach?
Though I might have a thousand heads, I will still fall asleep. Neither a flock of birds nor the approaching enemy will be audible to my ears.
So now, imagination was a colorful machine floating in the sky.
"...these moments start with feeling fed up. The weeks passed on slowly, with a ball of stress piling up in the stomach. And then, when you least expect it and there's no one else, you take the pen with boredom or hit the chord on the old guitar hanging in the corner and it all begins... You can't believe all that's been spilt around when you sober up. They are still shining and moving right in front of you as if their heart was beating. Your opacity, on the other hand, is still at 33%. And you wish you never returned, and they kept spilling."
Though we might share the same physical environment, we are seldom together. It is here that we breathe the same air with objects and expand our space as we sculpt them.
This three-dimensional border begotten by their unquestionable tangibility becomes home to perspectives yearning for infinity.
I'm sure there's a power out there that can age time; leaving it outdated, underdeveloped, and past its prime.
It was our existence that was dancing with extinction in the orbit of the black holes.
There are more things to be discovered