what do they want that
pisses me off that
my sire's in all that
nowhere land and that
music of his that
holds sway
his words are for them
put his spells on them
urgently hated them
wilfully led them
astray
what is my share to
live from bequest and to
find all the ways to
sick pay
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You see, here you'll find poems and prose of opportunity and seasons. They're ours, though, so we have to protect them. Respect! Thank you!
Readers are welcome! If you are willing to follow the iconian path, you should know that it is always you we are talking to, even if it is not. And that everything is true, even if it is not. We all are eternally united in the last space possible where even the impossible is real. We ought to believe the foretold: If we'll meet tomorrow, next year, or never, it doesn't matter, it's only time! And everything, even time is fiction.
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