a theft

time was your posession ... till the rush broke through your eyes and the pain cursed all your records. the sentiment is gone ... each new second is a renegate from some unknown system. you try to follow, but the water has its own rules. you pass them all: mother killers, fathers' slaves... now, all things are marked by escape, you are the last man standing. tomorrow we will burn the city. the circumstances inclined us to believe that the loss of time could be compensated by the procuration of space. the gods will laugh in our faces.

::: ghastly specter of tragedy :::