Photo by Gamaliel Masters
The hours lend themselves away never to be the same again or back. That is our time our making our reality put into our tiny shells. I pray to myself. What lies without? Wind blows past my face; it's not even the same wind that moved to others. Or is it? The projection of life into clouds all you get is high. Fear lends it self to the search or is that allowed? I had reality or something called that in my pocket giving bread to a brother it must have fallen out. We can make it!! the same as all as always as nothing all explanations fall short of you. Because i am different? Feelings are different. Life is on your back always until ended. The bigger your self the heavier your load. My Father has his life in his pocket pictures cards money... The life on your back is impossible to look at. Others must tell you.