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The plurality of coordinate system
cannot describe the nature of our existence,
as we progress in space and time
as a product of strength and direction into the infinite
but the program encoded in our genes
can turn back to itself: the life is a sphere,
set of self-returning lines; the completeness itself,
the infinite, and by being born, paying our bills
and by dying, we break this ancient order, we upset
the harmony, it is up to us what marks we scratch the inside surface
of our glass bubble; I engrave in vain flower, dragon, and fox,
if you adorn our most beautiful moments with Sig-runes,
and finally to me I also have to throw away beauty,
mythology and the logic to find some stigma which expresses my disgust,
my contempt, and my rejection of your ignorance:
Finally I hurt myself, I paint around my middle-fingered fist with blood.
After the entire collapse, I wrapped in the narrower sphere
I'm trying to get rid of the blood on my hands
while the flower will be pink, the dragon will be burgundy,
the fox will be red and my broken version will be the new myself
that can create further; that can looking for the more parallel infinite.