Quagmire of our generation, lost and self-censored thoughts.

Meaningless words, twisting, tangling, making nights filled with terror and fears.

Labyrinthine names of deceased, countless meteors shattering the sky.

Our, our beloved immortal ones, get no rid of their old tones.

Assuring that yellow paged bible of sophia singing no hymns but empty numbers.

Full sentences, full sense, a constitutive exception of our sacrilegious time.

What a crime of lie, virtue of sin.

Yes, yes, we enjoy oxymoron as the way we were told and taught.

So now is the tomorrow, and now is the past.

Now is everywhere except where we are.

We fight each other but hug in the mud.

We kiss the dust and throttle the trust.

We can only be blocked by the margin fields of beholding eyes.

Holy illusion, Autre le tout, throw, please, roll my dice.

Without quixotic bravery the windmill cannot be stopped.

Buy me this with your money and that with your life.

Buy me a hollow hope with book worshiping mind.

Next corner of the same street, mad dashing silent pedestrians.

Conflagration, starting point for another vulgar story.

The poet gloatingly making up his new lines.

So it is the time.

Times when tear becomes the greatest heroism.

Times when mothers detest their own sons and protagonists are seen as audience.

This is the place our generation were born.

Wasteland of post-modernism and birthplace of ditto.

We hate the tale.

Alas, we continue the plot.