It Isn'T In the Time

it isn't in the time, neither in the dream nor in the feeling's vagueness but it is to what uncertainty as well the ungovernable hopelessness - which here outline the notes of a forgetful page, like a mark will be going to melt away in the snow - nearlier fix themselves onto, it is to that you hand over, what of yourself the memories leave behind and what never admired you won't be able to gaze at anymore... but it's the instant it is the instant which snows of memories ancient and lost, ravagely fascinating memories, unforgettable emotions which bloodily plunge their cutting sword into your soul, and you, you aren't able to bear your bundle of rags and doubtful intents further on anymore, as under the dismayed light of the misted illuminance life vanishes