As the sphere turns on its axis one more time nestled in the depth of an inaudible sigh. A question illuminated by the day's last strobes of light gently lingers on. Like all the others, this one too shall find no answers. Like the tears that decorate the windless night, the invisible hands of the answers shall not wipe them off, nor will it be the last to haunt this desolate expanse of strangers as you aimlessly pass them by.
With every turn you should have been wiser, should have known better, a lot less nicer, words full than emptier. Yet, it gets worser, each step taken makes you weaker, edges gnawing closer, distances growing nearer, emptiness inside more louder. Purpose is the non-existent antidote against the anathema of existence. Music can be slotted into seven notes, for that matter emotions too, with a bit of blot. There is nothing ever special. Eat, procreate and die - a three course lie called as life.
The spirit - is the greatest lie, is a failed leader, is a non-existent God, is a potent scam involving the billion. Learn to unlearn, unlearn what you learned, in reality lives a dormant dream, water it all down with a set of beliefs, make it edible, give it a nice name, package it in cheap fancy livery, make it all so real, make it all so really fake. Sell it well sonny, we have a living to make.