ROAD-SWOTTING

 
Like someone who has been stuck here for a long time and killed the fetus of creation from dead times, he can no longer die or even thrive in his old age, and he hasn't even gotten the damning words out of his hair-splitting mouth - so I am here a forgotten herald, a little mythographer of no use among people!

As someone who has always loved like that, professed knee-jerk, undying love, he voluntarily went to Death for the sake of someone and waited for the inquisition's fate. Yet he can never finally reach himself, only his long-lasting grief moans and kneads his selfish limbs.

They only mock, trample, and humiliate the soul-wounds of his stubbornness. Marcona, galád Time in the XXI. century?! - Those who may have known me from long ago, because they stripped down, peeled off the layers of my armored onion-skin soul, now even they are all at a loss because the greedy blindness of careerist luxury dream ideas does not allow them to see.
Like someone who has already reckoned with everything and has long guessed his fallen loss; tormented by an irrefutable sense of propriety. You can never make peace with each other now! I have known for a long time that the merciful and merciless Death will dance merrily over my passing and call to him a small family army of populous worms and bugs.

A thousand seasons shed their colors without care and I lost myself here too. The sobs of silver stars longing for tears knock on my spleen-soul... I have to live among my roots, like a pitiful little worm, abandoned on a distant, bird's-eye mountain. The appearance of Janus people who appear on weekdays betrays and exposes at the same time. I can't leave myself a stranger!