Why dreams
always sit in isolated places?
Why aren’t they born
as complex and whole beings?

Why things
that seem so real
always miss...?

Now I realize
the empty holes
beyond blindness,
deep and slippery
with killing instincts ...

I refuse to feel
the longing for completion.
I don’t want to know
that I will die
and my real world
was just an ephemeral dream,
But so hard to find...

What do I seek for myself?
A spring of promises
that I will have it all?
All that won’t be enough
that will make me mortal?

What do I wish for myself
beyond immortality?

All is not available
in time...
This "all" will be the nothing
from tomorrow ..
Tell me, you conceited wish,
the truth about yourself..