With a depressed sense of unforgivable guilt, all spiritual significance will pass by your eyes in gray days of static perceptions of predictability. Those days are beyond any predisposed form of sadistic hostility. Days in darkness do not glorify the sickness of an absolute exasperation determined to portray the victories for years to come. I know I will not be spared from the darkness to come. Should I?
Now I remember:
So many sick days, so many days are excruciatingly disdainful, and yet, the horror of choice seems to be immaculate. Days do not live like this unless they are
prematurely dead. But I can’t speak for myself, unless I feel deeply moved by the sincere words of a universe yet to be designed.
But this constant state of things does not spare me from the times to come: always apprehensive, always undermined, sometimes it seems like I'm always downwards,
I'm constantly being trapped in this obscurely dark and static pattern of doomed saturation.
This constant abysses lying in complete darkness recedes the state of desperation relegated to the world, always stuck at the drowsiness of an everlasting desolation.
What can I do when shattering oppressive darkness overcomes the opportunities of sincerity? This old moon never seems to get me back. Life is always driven in the edge of the blade. Life is always dangerous, always deadly, always black, always dying within and around you.
To be free from all these incessant days, and its infinite grains of benevolence. To rest eternally in a perpetual circle of sleep is what I can do gradually, as I learn to assimilate the maleficence of my long sleep hours under a tree of dreams. In these moments of intervening, life always seems so destructive. Why I can’t rest properly in this world of mine, created entirely by myself?
I should be sincere: tonight I feel very old. Tonight I feel the years that passed me by. Tonight I feel very old. Tonight I feel all the weight of the years on my shoulders. All these years have been set upon my face and all this darkness all around the world remembers the eternal day of devastation that will drown below my window, below the dangerous darkness of my window, full of it's shadows and criminals and the city landscape that pulverizes my mind and the emptiness of a mortifying agony pointing fingers at me virtually accusing the years of passing by; articulated cosmogonies doesn't go away. I'm alone and all these years are so filled with anguish. The years keep passing by.
The years keep passing by as I get old. And I'm getting old. So very old as they told
of these eternal winters that cleanses the soul. And the years keep passing by. The years keep passing by. But time never goes away. In their cruel assertion of affliction, the years are relentless. The years are black and grey. Those years were a real pleasure in life.
I'm not taking the chances to be a warrior. The world is a very secret place. Nobody knows the true treasures of your eyes but me. This mainly occurs because life is suffering. Life is the night in a never-ending rain. Life is the truth, but only God