and when the music stops
i’ll know the final hour
would have ended. silence
is but a continuation
of the same, in another form.

i do not know, what it has become
and, maybe, i do not care to find out.
all this has a familiar scent
and, from a point in time,
all circles seem to find their way

to the same beginning.
you must understand,
repetition makes it perverse.
i do not want to continue,
i am fed up.