Oh boy, the rag picker ruined me. Return me my money, for these are halogen tubes. Immersed from before, I just asked to prolong. Who is here penny less to buy me a forth? I love not to be. Look, the stars are already here; today they are not pretending to hide. The crevasse increases between me, and my time. The big hole is in quantified ratio with the globe and the space beyond. I resigned backward and forward simultaneously. Pulled out a Pennsylvanian arty foil out of vomit stricken rubbish cylinder. Time elopes, not me with it, homely. Limbs are residual recluse. Now the Moon, though in love with six-pence, yet, I don’t have such ideational object as friend. God, the heroine attacker in the scene. Some lover boys with them. Citizenry! Young lovers hand in hand, with some buffoons targeting them. Both sides being good citizen, I am none. Whiskers won’t deliver me with a rebellion, for I am siding with the holy time killing machine. This humid sultriness, assholery of boredom, a perfect match for work load wholesomeness of Capital. Being with for the other disperses, my time craft dwindles between five thousand B.C. to 1871. Jump cut, 1966. My galaxy of platitude asks me not to be at one with them, yet, oneness with other world stricken brawls of finitude, in infinite ‘thereness’. Future Dom. How many millions of years can human survive this boredom? We belong to perfect gaseous state, who told? Gas belongs to airy substances, no immersion. How long shall we wait to be at one with solidified circles, roaming around time, the Sun? I hit the chord. Stoned to the core. Elliptical subjectivity transforms me into nothing more than a habitual street hopper. Past occurs as a gaseous state, in accord with the futural. Present as illusive crevasse. Future as an after to daily missions of past reckoning. The streets are in full velocity. Life calls for the dullness of everyday. There must be something which carries us home. For time being it was junk ridden solipsism towards the street.