Words are extremely slow in their usage, thrown back at me frequently by the abstractions. Important is the God Who doesn't speak but shows. And the luck that plays like a born child, born roped, born rebellious and limitlessly true. That stabs constantly in what I shout and descript about. That ignores apparently all what I say __ whatever I say. And keeps on listening and keeps on waiting for centuries, for ages, for the whole lives to reveal what I have changed __ I human.
Submission Name: Slow
