my skin is dying a constant per second. the rate of my inner self is multiplied to a decade per minute. I honestly wait for that glimpse in the mirror, when I'm twenty-nine and my mind is passing the two thousand mark - will I feel old or just happy that I still haven`t killed myself after all my conscious has seen?
will I ever be able to give birth to words, if I`m dead inside?
like a gravedigger, living in a town of immortals.
like a never setting sun on a planet with many horizons, yet not a single soul to admire them.
a living proof of something long gone, with only a whisper left in a hollow shell, walking around like a mad man with no sight and lust for life.
my skin is dying a constant per second.
my mind has just pulled the trigger of a signal gun.
I`m running a marathon, where death is both the starting and the finish line.
the time in between I call life.
boo.
toss me a bottle of water.