It's all night here in my city. Days never arrive. They're mere an illusion of Sun. Everybody works in dark. From the uprising Sun to the devastating Moon, everyone works in the silhouette of the day.
They think life's a journey. They think it proceeds towards the satisfaction. Like a stairway, we all climb a little more daily to reach out to heaven. But life's no stairway to heaven. It's always levelled up. What you feel inside now, you will feel same the next day and all the days to come are waiting for you the same.
Present always nourishes what future denies.
So while drifting along these cold winter morning, while I held your hand, it felt warm all around. I never did forget that matter is only energy condensed to a flashing vibration. I did vibrate warm then, with you.
It's always been a choice of personal freedom. There's nothing as death and life is just a dream we imagine of.
So, I believe to rise always on with my feet on stairs of my freedom and all of my memories will be saved back there, somewhere in between the undefined forlorn corners of the black holes. They will be there forever.
Once I was alone. Then I found myself, lost in time as time is the actual distance between people, while chasing the Sun. Now I feel I am not alone. Maybe the city is.
Tell the story you want to tell Take the reader to where you dwell Into the imagination and mind We all seek the things we find Adventure, romance, tragedy Emotions in which to live & breathe To lose ourselves inside of prose Taking words wherever we go So we may be what we aspire Keepers of unquenchable fire That burns within the reader's mind And creates the ties that bind With pen and paper, gift or sell And tell the story you want to tell