Time passes, and it’s aging.
Aging, Passing time.
Following, screaming, shouting. Pressing hands against glass.
Reverence for the past. Unstick swallowed soles. Souls.
Moving. But not fast.
Cross fade to black. White. Grey.
All is grey between the lines. Scrape pavement, scrape by.
Progress. Self-inflicted reality. Idealogical creation.
All alone. It is dark. Ticking. The clock falls.
It all makes sense now.