It’s long since my thoughts were clear. The face of my cherub keeps me up at night, and awake working at day. There’s nothing else to live for. In spite of it, there’s no will to live without being so, the light at the end of the tunnel is dim, and the energy is scarce.

Day by day, endless discussions ensue. No patience, no plan, and no thought lives. Just plain action, and reaction. The unexamined life is, it’s not just a pandemic, it just is. Darker presences befall the faithful, which fall from the sky above.

The nymph no longer speaks to me, or looks at me. I’m just to be. There’s ice in the gaze of those who despise you, and little to be done to disguise it. Be it a weirdo, a criminal, or a paria, there’s nothing to it, except the torture of being. Breathing hurts, stopping hurts, speaking hurts, being just hurts. There’re worst punishments, but that should be reserved to the worst.

The longing never diminishes, and the only light to be had is the smile of innocence. These are the days of no thought, of no speak, of no being. These are the days of just being alive.