|. . . God is dead.|
What was left was three kinds of beings called humans.
The descendants lost all memory of the past.
Let us begin with the story.
As though it is a human life. As though it is the flow of time.
And is it regret that does not allow one to turn their glance backwards.
Or is it all along of misleading restlessness.
For there is a always shadow there.
And it silently follows throughout.
If you look at the shadow you will know.
I have this feeling somehow . . .