But what good are memories tomorrow?
Yesterday is the slimy track behind a snail. It exists, as an indication of life’s passing, not as a description of its character or a painting of its life. Today we have and “now” is the only place we can call our own. Within the stillness there is movement. Where is the insightful eye? Where is the sense that detects the destination of the current's flow that carries us silently into tomorrow?
Here, alone, I am the battlefield; within me there is war. Imperfection and destructive trends are my internal enemies. Death calls for satisfaction; with her web she cloaks my ignorance and with her poison she numbs my insensibilities. Today, I will not neglect the light, nor the space between Chimera and tomorrow…
Are we burning under this persistent sun? Are the heavens making a mockery of our questions? Why does man feel so empty that he needs to fill his life with conquests and plunder, raping visions of innocence with foul perversions of reason?
RATINGS BREAKDOWN
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