Dreams of the Clef, Nightmare of the Deaf

When you criticize your own metaphors, that you are sick and had had enough, is a moment where nothing is really validating to whatever scale with whatsoever context. The one moment where one man standing for the given punch of flowers and when it is all settled, out of the blue, the flowers go on fire and the soul is burnt out - this is when the city that never sleeps, dies of light. At a glance, the scene where the world is in your hand is one big fool fantasy that you become vulnerable to weakness. That pain where it is not mentally physical or even mentally a thing to mention but more accurately an inner monologue of fire inside. The pain is silent, or it might not be, because, at that moment when the clock stops and when every little motion is in deep closure, you are deaf. A second later, the world strikes again moving on with such motion that a question goes, did anybody say anything? As long as it goes, the stars are now dim, and the music of hype that jazz used to sound is just there, but you are just deaf. Perhaps reading the clefs that made a poem of its lines a painkiller but once the audition is over, the pain is back with some nonsense hallucinations that the city that once shined with stars is one that is on fire and chaos. Chaos itself exists already by so for the drama but somehow, some managed to contaminate it even if not alone but it is possible and when the human is all clear to himself, it is one main conclusion: is that a part of the story? What story? Why this story? After all, these questions are kept to one main character, the writer, who is not even a character which means, we will always stay ignorant to our minds where we live to destroy when the world is just there to help increase the cancer. After all, the metaphor is no longer interesting - meaningless and empty. What cause to serve? What purpose to live? The flowers were once beautiful but even if they are burnt, they are still beautiful. Flowers were never, by any definition, a metaphor for how they look but only for their existence. The metaphor goes for a man that once dreamed sleeping on the floor, but that is not the case because, it is just a nightmare of an ordinary dead man if that is not depressing which I am sorry for.