Short Lyrical Prose
The igneous surface I am walking on has a tremendous sound stored in it, but in a dense state so that the land appears dead.
The colour is thick black; it stains me anew with every step that I take, entering breath by breath within.
Smog-heavy mood, like heavy chains, has made me hunchbacked. Hollow quietude stays along, walking next to my faint shadow.
I utter nothing, nothing at all – all noise is of the wind; the wind ruffles around greasily, overwhelming me with dullness.
The mind is whimsical, I tell myself after some days’ journey; I continue ahead.
Where to, I ask, am I going?
That was the last I heard from myself.
But I am still walking, walking towards what lies opposite the nadir.
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