Within the river of time,

there is no such thing as timelessness.

What is so-called everlasting, 

is no more than the comparison between lengths of existence.

What should exist, never existed.

The most desperate desire ends up to be the aching void,

yet that intangible emptiness is still urging to burst out untiringly. 


“Not really…”

There is no need to point out the emptiness within its existence.

There is no point to struggle for dramatic sadness under the emotionlessness.

Only the tightness in the chest,

the sickness from the throat.