Cronosmu

Life as a stained glass window in the cosmos: a well of misfortune, shattered hours, pieces of night and liquid decades. A bird crosses the universe and in the corner of eternity it warbles a song that encloses everything. I escape to the route of tempest: the galaxy, oniric labyrinths, a spiral path to madness.

If I were writing from the other side, I would say This road was not on my map. No one goes there on purpose. And then tell you how I escaped. I asked for help, for change, and grief was the answer: Grief as old and hollow as snowfall, grief as heavy as snowfall, grief that said, "You, You are the spent ember, You are the last angry voice and when you pass the dark will have been waiting." The grief was right. I burn, I burn cold and heavy, crouching in the ashes of greatness, I burn, and the fuel is low. The dark is waiting. But what angel comes with words of despair? Even Job had no angels to tell him, "Alas."