it's just a text.
time is dead. the question is - was it ever even born? time is buried, but was there a funeral? where is time? where has it come from? the day has just begun. the day of another night. the day has just died. the day of another day of another day of another day.

to feel stuck between yesterday and tomorrow. to feel followed only by another tomorrow. i’m no one. no one. i’m never present nor absent I am. to feel the yesterday behind your back running to never catch up. It knows it’s stuck in a history of its own. followed by tomorrow with a yesterday behind. if I be present why should tomorrow be chased by yesterday, not me? i don’t belong between those two.  nor can I escape. i’m locked.
nothing happens to me i observe dust to think that I live. days flow by, i frown as i watch clock hands repeat the same rhythm, the same pattern. it's endless, the same hours
on differently same days. i set the clock back and it cycles back forth. the second hand won't go back. it ticks itself a second forth. i remove the glass and touch its face, feel it tick. revolve the arrows hoping for an earlier evening, longing for a later night. manual deception of changing times. nothing is happening. those hands are puppets at the hands of tiny wheels. what time is it? it's the same. and I betake sleep to split the endless and avoid the day that never ends. i don’t have a favourite day of the week. my mind drugged with insomnia. i don’t sleep to darn saturday and sunday to bar the cave to feel the shape of today. and the 25th hour picks it up. the track of days lost in the planner. what day is it today? it’s today.

told you
it's just a text