Walking through the breeze on this plain of grass I look into the vastness of this great land.
Everything seems new yet burned.
Passion doesn't seem to have made it to this point, fungus and moss grows rapidly, spreading, covering.
Each time that I come to this spot it looks the same...
Walking through the breeze on this plain, this big open plain, I wonder to myself, what makes things different? Better, or same?
Nothing changes, nothing is moving.
I hate the feeling I get when I am here, the loathing, the despair and anguish that seems to just hover.
Like someone is putting a heavy cloth over my head, weighing me down.
Life is the resemblance of a dark ally, u walk down it knowing that it's the only way to get home, and yet this is where the road stops, your life ends.
We never make it home...
We are torn, broken.
Wondering who is allowed to give the order?
Does it really matter if we make it, to this final destination; not really.
Walking through this breeze that colds my already hardened face, I already know that answers are never right.
We are always alone in this gigantic