antidote

he is just trying to remain intact these days. because it feels like standing in an open field and four strong winds try to drag this grip away. from all directions the questions come, freezing and hard, embracing the youth that resides within him with their arms of ice. asking him for his time and his name. he gave them both. they still want more. the rest. oh he guessed only the red twinkling lamp attached to the rear of his bike would really give him protection from behind.

if he squeezes an hour of his time, he will get five to ten minutes of it as the core of that hour, the essence of his concentrated work. the summary of the sixty minutes. because the rest are but a story upon which he dwells to get to his ultimate quality. a story he presents to the world, with his name on the top of it as its title. when the clock is ticking, the heart is beating too, and the evolution goes on. dark, bright, ever changing of seasons. the progress, or not really, simply the movement, continues to make sure that the ship reaches the land. now look at the waves, and be silent... ah, and he knows it's the time for the swan to float on the english river.