And I don't know how many days have passed since the moment I started wondering about the tempest that came with the realization of existence.
And I don't know how many hours of those days I wondered about whether I was the spawn being played on the chessboard, or whether I was the knight that was eliminated.
And I don't know how many minutes of those hours I spent burning myself with the matchstick that would soon be incinerated like the string of emotions within me, nor do I know of whether I am the pheonix, or whether I am merely its ashes that were washed away with the rain. And I do not know how many seconds of those minutes I sought refuge in, nor have I paid any heed to the spasms that overtook me on the bridges in the photographs of the yesterdays. And I know not of how many lives I led in those seconds. And in those minutes, my memory fades unto, and in those hours, I write the stories, and in those days, I throw the paints onto the streets, so that they flow through the nooks and crannies and spread a few colours that I knew not of, for all I really knew was that my insomnia visited me when I missed you the most.