hours of thoughts

In the beginning there was no end; still all beginnings invariably end, and where lies the seam between two fuzzy borders? Man struggled to step into a warp of inconsistent clockwork, yet the search for a label has never been so strong; us harassing the waltz of the moon 'round the earth 'round the sun, us chasing shadows on copper us peeping: shadows on stone. Round the year – when did we discover this? since time equals food? maybe Money, now – survival, yesterday; our tales begin Yestermillennia and so we bind us to a phony need and despise those who live without, always musing. Maybe a whore cares about it; the rape has a pre-set limit – thank God, but the clockwork is still orange, the rape autonomous, and (this time) far from self-inflicted. We dance for the sun, but what, does it even lift an eyebrow for our efforts? Rain then, rather.