It is a fool's game. Count the stars as they fall to the ground in a climax of activity hitherto absent from all their life. It is a fool's game, nothing but a fool's game. While the enthusiasm ebbs away, life supplanted by the resignation to life, a life time is spent in denial, in a parallel universe.

The enter key does not work, all inputs are primary. To be passed on to secondary.

While all else fails and falls to the ground, it is the song of hopelessness that soars above middling aspirations in a disconcerting symphony of a series of disappointments.

All life is a quest for meaning, a life time is a search for closure.

Identity is sought, recognition is craved for. Niches are what we seek to carve. We might as well dig a tomb out of the rock faces. And bury the past so that no malevolent spirit pursues, in the dense concrete jungles, the lost soul of a city dweller.

Why such darkness? What cause for this lament?

Was not Bacchus meant to loosen merry tongues?