Running away from something...

The "who am I" scene.

Blazing sun that I saw true,
impeccable.

But running it on warm blood,
with memories in a house,
it's the danger of comfort
and passivity.

Too good on adapting...

And it seems that the hardest,
the more dark - but somehow true -,
the more impossible
is what I most gladly let through me.

It's clouded the weather
and the sleep was awake:
the mind cannot function
without purpose.

Work, that's the thing,
the grand achievement of our time.

The job.
The job to entertain life.

Not that working is bad,
I like to work honestly.

But that demand,
and only being that demand,
is not good.

Unemployment and people going (naturally) mad.

Get a job they say.

So a job it is,
but the thing is that my job
seems to be life itself.