It's so tight within when we look to past and it glare at us like a storm destroying simply everything that is fragile. I am not a strong old oak. Most like a rose falling apart by every single weak whisper of wind. I get down; and the torrent pass through me, drown me and carry me to the deep well.
So I crawl - or try - to take a breath. What get into my lungs it's enough to carry on in this long and seemingly endless thing called life.

Those old and lasting memories which can like fire on skin stay on my mind - like ghosts? no! And yes, we of course have the present, as well pushing us on. And on. And on...
Inspiration go away.
All thing always go away.