Abandoned in a land, the name of which cannot be spoken.
Every dawn is a false one.
A deceiving glimmer of red light in the sky ahead—like a strand of blood.
Every project—merely a holiday from the bleakness of reality.
Every expectation—a moment's delay between now and then.
And as then appears and is now, and the rhythm of it all repeats, we will know that it will end, and that the repetition of it is only the path to the end of it.
And the path connects to nothing.
And so we look to the dawn, and the project, and the hope for then, and at the glimmer of the time when our search will be met—at a place further along the path.
And we pace it out, as if our steps leave marks in the path.
But there is no legacy for us under the appearance of eternity.
We will have been—and been only a spark.
And the light of the spark has only been witnessed by itself—there is no eye in the bleakness of what appears the time ahead, there is no name to the land in which we find ourselves alone.
