To task in regret, those returning from interstellar time travel, the basking allotment into an almost ageless declines of shape my matter of time. Those times they did not matter, in a record of drained findings and the reappearing ticking of the infinite watch.

Phrased their word’s, the solitude in space and time, had sounded on an embarking wisecrack, to them if I am many then why are we one, and so i had to retell in the depths of space, there I exist, with you existing and predisposed time with irrational thought.

In a returning amount of trespassing alignment, the colour of shape did not attain to the impressing structure of time or composition to a correlating sum of vastness. Them to hold in place, life held to my watch, the outlasted, your impression of my reality divided.

2019 Adam Blewett ©