Light dancing through the window wakes me up to another day? to be passed in full consciousness of the seconds the minutes the hours? the day?sublime. I learn helplessness, I lose productivity, the consciousness of the ticking clock gulps me. I forget what is timeless, what is the color of the day; the only things I produce are digestive enzymes and semen. Even the thoughts have turned into reminiscence. I welcome the night. The night that escapes the day and put me to sleep, not beyond clockwork as the hourly gongs pierce my skull, the appreciation of the morning alarm increases as the night draws close. But the minutes and the seconds dance in the production house of my dreams. I travel in a train sitting beside my pretty child, my sweet one, I hold her hand and come down innumerable steps. In dreams we hold hands in the crowd. We dance like fireflies we dance till the last muscle burn out and she falls down before me, I?m still strong and young, I carry her in my arms to a place where we can fly. But I must fly alone. This poem starts the countdown from 30, and I?ll be gone leaving behind the hatred for the day and submission into the night my pretty child, my sweet one. The hourly gongs sometimes startles me in the morning I?m just awake shaking dreams from my hair writing the poem.

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