so early, the day is young, even so I have already lost.
a last drop of rain or a single stroke on a page, wasted.
should you have written all over it or drank it you might have found more satisfaction;
instead I just keep turning the pages. I must know.
though I\'m begged by the common reality to continue on this illusionary path of stability.
I must let time pass through me instead of trying to pass through time.