And feeling,
Like the last of the living,
or the first of the dead.
Of what was, and what is, and the gone chance of what will be.

Of last remains
Of wisps of hope
Of yellow light
In unknown future
Which isn't even interesting, Now.

But I'm floating,
In blue bubbles
And purple clouds
Not in void, but in difference, yet so
close, And so distant.
And so very detached.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Lupar, in the year 345 AF.