Those small particles skipped and stuffed in a glass that is longing to explode in any minute or second. Sinned or your conception, perception or even those unaware awareness locked up in a microscope cell inside of you.

Am I crawling on the ground looking above and hoping that those wings will just pop inside sending me somewhere else? No, that is not true. There is some hours along the way and I am just in the top of the stairs waiting for my men that’s all dressed in black, just there, around the corner. But it’s not me, you know, that was just a puppet playing out for my tired days. Days so cold and miserable that you won’t move a muscle but buys you a free ticket to there, on the top of the stairs.

That comes intense, you think that would be your last day on earth and then disappears. But you don’t really mind, and it is so extremely and harsh that you question yourself if you should … you know, think that through or maybe … sit there by the fire and let here and there be more light

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