Sometime it is essential to keep silent, drown in silence, revoked from alarming racket of life. It is inevitable sometime compute oneself face to count, —how many scratches it has needed to be back here again.
Look, life is as it is. Surface is hostile… morning breezes manifest undesirable… God is missing…; look, it is life… droning and retarded…; perhaps you’ve lot to say… though sometime it would better remain silent in front of a melted candle.
Anomalous silence sounds better than symphonic resonance. Green minaret calls you to prayer… that is resonance; transparent fiberglass beacons you to push the ambitious slide-door… it is resonance; naughty-looking gingerbread provokes your teeth to bite some backed oven love… yeah, that is resonance… but what about the calling bell? Is it resonance be?
Perhaps, anything could happen there. What do you tell about the televised tectonic voice of state head? What do you say to see the apt news-presenter in television with stylish outfit? Maybe you’ve nothing to say anything, albeit many could possible there, because, the state-head and news-presenter are uncertainly certain to the anomalies of life.
Tectonic is certainly uncertain into the thousands feet deep soil to shake the world. Stylish garment be anomalous to jerk the fashion-manic vogue. This is anomaly…, an alluring silence to pause the monotonous resonance.
Sometime it’s better to pause and puzzle the symphony by vexatious calling bell…, pushed the doorbell like an extravagant wrestler…, pushed it as an ailing morbid…, and suddenly sometime it needed to be pushed swift like an escapist, so nobody can guess the ringer…, and that’s your defense against surveillance resonance of life.
… There is no point to ask anything about life… anything that is happiness…, that is shady in sadness…, that is mystic in madness…, and that is happenstance… like the pointless silence of nowhere…
There is no point to ask anything about life…, anything that is happiness…, that is shady in sadness…, that is mystic in madness…, and that is happenstance… like the pointless silence of nowhere.
Try to be the flier in the void who has no wings to fly but Daedalus to fly. Try to be a flier in the void where two skies make a junction… one is forever silver, another is muddy and black…, one is divine and another infernal.
Try to be a flier on both labyrinths. Yeah, follow the flier who has no wings to fly but Daedalus to flown Icarus, and that is… you ain’t the bird and never could fly avoid the silver and black line of life.
Look at the giant tree…, stands in the edgeless river…, compound to the endless horizon…, stoical… engrossed to its own silence. Feel the tree and engaged you in silence…, yeah deeper… to engrave your epitaph that is…, you were aloof to suck this life but hungered to quest the silent tree…, stands in the edgeless river silently.
Mind your own business and wheel the body-machine silently…, ticks the machine silently…, before the droning cuckoos deafen you silently.
Life designed here for weaving. Weaves… weaves… and weaves it with silent resilience.
… Try to be the flier in the void who has no wings to fly but Daedalus to fly…