The procedure

Tick-Tock. Now death.
Back then. A long-term déjavu. The 1st ,2nd or millionth life of hers. A zombie-like existence. A Bitter-Sweet-Dreadful land of  zombies within this one,which is such a land as well.
. A child; blind. Jet, a  Blind child. In a pink  iron bubble ,(created by us,and we were,are by the system,the system  remains due to us,the white-black, mortal ignorants’ system ) in a dark alley , in high heavens. A time. A mere dot in a page squarely dotted, in the zillions-tons book of time. Mere dust.When they were black, as that  was perceived;called black, and we were white, since this ....;called white: and there was no grey: us and  the system. And no matter how many renaissances of the golden rays were followed by the grey-pink light of the night(one further incarnate of the perception’ s concept, for while mere solid atoms it finds-like some of us- in light its long hungered for features), and still  the golden silk of salvation rejected her xth application for it to  wrap her window with one of those  many alleged new mornings’ lights,allegedly filled with these crosses ,this queer sense of hope,of feeling that ecstasy take over this body with the occurrence of each messenger from that fairy-land,from that 2nd Las Vegas, that omnipotent ring”future”, was excluded from the list of those who were shattered to dust .The source saw to that.
And despite the fact that the almighty  phantoms  fear and pain had finally reached in her own person the terminal stage of their  terminal journey of finding, of choosing a permanent settlement, an obedient home of their own.nearly in extenso incapable of hearing the ring ,she, while by the also almighty ogres depression and confusion getting held,possessed  and shaken to her very inner core, seemed –for laugh out loud- to never stop to be overwhelmed by that anonymous source, that while she  was bleeding profoundly hugged her  soul .Bitter-Sweet.Nonetheless Ohh  a mere,Ohhh a  whole déjavu,that was  creepily wrapping this skin .. Oh yes creepily,for  how she  craved for leaving That land of delicious  dreams, a land of unidentifiable components. How she craves for leaving This Dreadful-Dreadful land of persistent  nightmares,in which the bitter- sweet-dreadful one is a déjavu inside this infinite déjavu ,which is,furthermore,strictly  toyed with by  freakier  zombies:ratio,and hence Tick-Tock;Dreadful-Dreadful.
Accordingly,apparently, the time of the source is gone. The process.
You’d say the sweet bitterness’ absence is  due to  those crosses we’re obliged to carry around through our creepy route of this so-called adulthood.
No. That’s not it.
She  says  it’s owing to the fact that now there are-funny as it is-all shades of grey, while whenever her  beautiful ,beloved,apparently conceited mind dares to commit  a step it falls; she falls ,no ground, just deep ,dark,grey,cold water instead of pink solid bubbles. And  despite  the bubbles,she hasn’t yet learned to water-swim.Tick-Tock. Yes, of course! There are a few islands, mere hallucinations of a further kind, the more she approaches them, the farther they tend to seem.Once  ago, the hallucination was incarnated, as her,happy ,pathetic mind was so goddamn satisfied in its illusionary pink iron bubble located in a dark alley, high heavens, 3rd floor of an old house belonging to her grandparents, with familiar aromas of a long dead era ;object of That  déjavu,object of hallucination,and ,moreover, made to think so,and therefore thinking black was squarely black and white was squarely white :and there was no grey. Revolutionized has been this  mind, and thus so has been her  perception of it as well; her sweet little pink  iron Omnipotizing bubble has blown up.Tick-Tock.
And while , her elder  crawling ghost entitled misery has finally managed to find a new ,submissive home of its own, maybe,yet not necessarily sick of everything and of nothing ;mere dust, ,a not very, still more or less tolerably remote one, a new zombie ,the ratio one , has succeeded in smashing the cemetery’s walls,walls belonging to an era ,long before her pathetic mortal existence.era of omniscient immortals, and hence in turning  her poor mortal ignorant existence into a senseless melancholy of ratio .Tick-Tock.Being wrapped by it, her  mind often takes a walk, a visit to the pink iron bubble in the old alley,in an old alley in high heavens, sometimes a long-term one, other times  one that collapses ,like the bubble itself, with the first seed of ratio sowed by a rational thought that occurs, so that she’s back to her  cold water.Tick-Tock. Even the ones she  used to worship in the bubble ,are now walking dead items, partly ghosts of another kind , of  pure materialism, as each pathetic desperate attempt to grasp a rational definition of this so-called love in the cold grey water, one that exists in her  recently gained vocabulary ,one that doesn’t seem paradoxical to her  overwhelming melancholic rationalism ,has gone with the winds of ruthless alleged  mother nature, incessantly whispering you can’t catch the wind, you can never be real;never free,so live with it, like most of them.Hence, a mere skull,over skulls she’s walking ,in the planet of the dead; every single remaining inch of peace ,of that Familiar- Foreign  omnipotent ring and thus of that devilishly confusing word (with whose silly songs and movies some dare to naively surrender to filling our world with,as though to find and maintain their own pink iron Omnipotizing bubble), a soulmate,a safe island if not a continent  or a sense to it all:THE LOST ,are from her,the for one of these alleged crosses craving soul, getting Penetratingly-Shockingly  pulled out. Yet her confused little mind holds a long wait for the final destination of Tick-Tock,in comparison to its authentic fulfillment ,whose rope around this neck rapidely fastens,to be while tormenting attractive. Originally filled in the core with the intrinsic and persistent profoundly holding phantoms fear and insecurity ,ennui and the long-term déjavu ,then sensing  the penetrating  numbness and the dust owing to the Multiple LOSS , Confused  by the grey water’s omnipotent embrace;another kind  of dust resulting in more loss of the capacity  of opening her eyes, Sharp and thus dead in each second due to rushingly crawling toes of her impatient clock,Tick-Tock:Torn in parts between and due to ruthless gods.

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