New honesty

There, in the boundless past, a diverse web of black thoughts weaves itself, catching particles of dust in which I search for the origin of the surrounding air.

A dreamlike scene rigidly releases the fluidity of the misty haze and fundamentally denies the new sincerity of a rapidly forming and technically flourishing world.

There, precisely there, in the boundless past, I watched floating trees, full of drowning larvae. We drag heavy roots behind us and try to make sure no one sees them.

Existential questions without answers and an undertone of surrender are connected to crossing the developmental line of the observer.

I am inventing a story on the already marked island. Everyone knows that the word never is not spoken there.

“I’ll never end up here again…” Why does she have to keep repeating it to me?

She turned, and the merging ocean dispersed in her eyes with the next wave. She buried her hands and feet in the ashen sand so that they could not be seen. She wondered how deep they were sinking. They stretch, they stretch deep, like hair in a pipe. She hated that sink just as much as she hated the entire apartment block. At the mere thought of it, her heart began pounding like it did when listening to Daft Punk on repeat.