“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”
Remember the dreams, old dreams, of crimson skies and velvet wavelets before I become death. No, I won’t bother with the paradox of the end or the beginning, or the edacity in the infinitude of repetitions, No it’s not theorizing, it’s only a remembrance of sky that once was crimson.
Before the realization or the question of being hits, where and when all is plausible and the sky is crimson.
In another life, in another world, I could’ve raged against the dying of the light.
Imagining, travelling the time and space, watching the galaxies unfold and to stare in God's eyes.
The night is pleasantly cold, it rained today, and too bad I know it’s not the tears of angels.