Everyone is guilty in this murderous alley. The death of minutes like vowels escaping from every comfort you hoard and every energy you waste.

You kill milliseconds so gracefully as the blades of the grim reaper clings closer to your face like a beautiful gown. It's no use, dear one. You're … (read more)

Everyone is guilty in this murderous alley. The death of minutes like vowels escaping from every comfort you hoard and every energy you waste.

You kill milliseconds so gracefully as the blades of the grim reaper clings closer to your face like a beautiful gown. It's no use, dear one. You're stuck in this street now, along with mass murderers of their own so-called twenty-fours and sevens.

Not a care about their own crime, the brutal killing of every hour they believe they own. Who would have thought that boredom could be a violent force? Because giving up feels so good - and just like that, you were defeated by empty space.

And so, the killing of time continues. Art called out to you, but your bloodlust was strong: "Sorry I'm not talented!" So instead, you embraced your own casket of guns and knives. You laugh at every poem that could've taken you to a new world. No musical note could pierce through the shield you made of steel. Your dreams, eaten by sabotaging serpents at your feet, the ones you yourself raised.

And so, the killing of time continues, in this street of hellish mediocrity. Not one book read, not one move danced, not one soul loved.