There's something when we isolate
That enlarges us, that completes us
Without the need of others.

There's something inside us
Claiming to be left to the moths,
To lose our forms and our substance
Into the nothingness of air, distance and trail.

There's something shouting
"Not me" whenever possible
Just to pass, to live in passenger seat,
To go and to come without bothering.

There's an urge to be just a self,
Nothing more, maybe to untouch
The universe, time and space wisely,
To be a bubble of own rules.

It's all illusions.
There is no world inside.
There's just us. Everything else's outside.