I'm still staying behind the same desk: the one with coffee stains all over it. I refuse to clean them up, as they are being the signs of how men's creature could be a royal companion to came along with me during the difficult nights.

Some people don't sleep because of pressure, I'm telling you. Some other don't sleep for pleasure. I am taking the part between those "some".

Here started the battles of time and its disorientation. Also, big struggles of suffer and adoration toward a lover. There is no big deal on how those things could mixed up on this desk: as on this messy desk, my mind has been both grown and torn. And on this desk, I am being an exile of my own dreams.

On daily deal's with rush times, I caught myself trying too hard to keep lies to my behalf soul. And beyond those appreciations that follow, I tend to cry of my own expectation. People come with question if I strive for irony within the days I am trying to pass. The answer is no. I don't strive for them; they strive for me. Thus, I told you that Absurdity I wanted to beat down.

But I got knocked down. Simply by the will to not get the white flag flying over my bitter reality. But human is human. Something inside them is quite of an energy. The only reason why I could tell you this, is because I am one of them.

And at the nights when sleeping turns into a form of sickness, anger and disappointment catch up the big question of how one could be called 'human'; I end up with worse anger and disappointment of seeking no answer.

Therefore, I stepped forward on a conclusion of questioning the questions: "We are having an orgy in aporia," he once said. I get drown into those words of his (and never (will) to swim back to the surface of clear borders (and I enjoy it)).

Perhaps it's tears that flow me across the stream, as once they were formed of concrete distortion of norms and wounded compassion. We are questioning "Why" and I yell "Stop!", but Emptiness is way too compact than we could ever think about, and it crashes down things I build: both walls and bridges.

Then I weep badly, here, still behind this desk, with scattered points of view embodied into what they call works, but then, never be enough to gain respect; a simple "Good" with no "because".

Perhaps it's only "Only" I am fighting against. Perhaps it's only "Only" why I am staying; with anxiety hangs over my head, like a big heavy grey cloud.