The wind carries the thunder. The thunder is her voice. Are you getting closer or farther away? You look just like a half moon. Are you getting brighter or disappearing? Smoldering in the corner, you carry your smokescreen with you. The focus is sharp sometimes. The edges are crisp for a while, as if the atmosphere just emptied completely. Time is a waste of time. Time is a language no one speaks. There's no way not to waste it. Time is a poisonous addiction. It's everyone's slow suicide.