The morning – filled with strangers’ rush. Vehicles piling. There’s a lump in my throat. Stomach rumbles – a day of repetition.
The maker,stopwatch on his hands – its time to play the game. Ha! Succumb to meaningless strife and lengthen suffering you foolish souls. For there is no heaven nor hell; and he is not even there.
The tears, the laughter, the strife, the triumph – only ripples that vanishes as soon as it have become.
Life cheats through the rise of the bourgeois – for these strangers only have their eyes on gold.
Oblivious of the meaningless game.
And the non-existent watchmaker.
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Subjective Realities Shared