I refuse as a professional to acknowledge the defeat that this silence is, 

I protect the flame-like the last human believing that help is on its way and I am left shivering in the cold of the lost faith that there is still a tomorrow. 

Because I know that if I act, that if I react, Roma burns today, and I don’t believe that you could survive it, that you could accept that I am the cold that you flee from every winter, that my abandonment is more lethal than the pain that I speak of, that I deny not only because of a kindness that protects me but because I know how to hurt with this feeling.

So, I stay with the dead tea in my hands, believing that soon there will be someone that remembers my name, that before I have to report myself as missing someone will remember my existence, I must maintain the faith that while little by little I’m slipping through the cracks there’s still an S.O.S happening where my sight doesn’t reach.

Because Jesus and Judas, if I accept that this is the extension of the time of a dead man, this empire will crumble to the tune of my lyre.

TA.