after All, every town becomes abandoned , a ghost, a husk of it's lifetime preserved in the chemicals Of light appearing on our Dark reflection. Isn't it horrifying ? fleeting Alike to the river Unrelenting upon the dirt Washing away every misconception of Life in the soil. We will become but ghosts and relics of a time of hope. our Lives predict the future ! O Boy.
We all think our identity is fixed, or at least firm. Nothing about that is true, the moment we decide to act differently then that phantasmal moment has become part of our identity. Is it a prison? It can be, if that’s what your imagination tells you it is. is it an escape? Well, if you let it, certainly.
