you do not know how is it to live as a thinkerliterature has portrayed an old man to this art
long white beard, silver hair unkempt
baths sacrificed for the constant write
hands on the paper before him
dawn and night and day
nothing matters really now except those thoughts
heaps and heaps of books and files of papers abounding
the room and wall practically all not just pulp
but binders and paper clips as well
outside him the world changes
seasons keep on changing
light and darkness exchanged vows
the journey is about to end
he knows where he is
a place where time is dead.
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