every story seeks its end.
pages are exhausted in a hurry
or what is lived or let to live
is written fresh and anew,
with its elixir assimilated
place gone, time mutilated.

while the end awaits
at a point with all its uncertainty,
the process moves on with the processor
within the whimsical panorama.
just like rivers gliding to the same sea,
each alone, an escapee,
whether fast or slow
in an ever-lasting flow…