He walked along a street in a town, an age-old town, through the tears of his mother and heartacheful sighs of his father, so unconfidently, through seemingly the first certain and thought over minutes, grieved by the leaving of a place which is missed once left, and watched free-birds fly low above the buildings and walking by. A light brown bird. Got style. The feathers should be freed. Not every feather. One must not be allowed to fly freedomwards. Too unsophisticated. The fatherous air of yore makes them not old but all almost untouchably transparent. With the exception of the dark and other underneath colours. Chasing might lead to secularity. Missing’s the answer. Divesting. In order to see the very essence, the very externity. Magic’s vanished if disturbed. Beauty’s never earthy. Dr… Reverie makes one confined, like persperation. Ah nah, too girlish that.
He walked not fast at all as he had time. It rings a bell, aye, should do. Times never enough if one’s in hurry. No fuss – no life. Life’s not an engine. Tide-life never exhibits enough pebbles of being. Limitless existence had never amused him, he’d felt lost and meaningless. Eternity’s always too altruistic to live for. What’s the point of living having no time to do so… such a delirium. He stepped into a paddle and went into the Earth again.