The air is stale
It's back again
I wonder when it'll stop.
The dimness of my memories
They look the same as now.
I flip through the dead trees that seem to make my future.
Random letters brought together
To make weird things they call words
And numbers and formulas afterwards.
I find myself staring out the window
And being more afraid of a red number
Than anything else.
Wanderlust.
Is that what it is?
The yearning of someplace else
Someplace I can escape this.
When will it end?
When can I pack my bags and go?
To the Utopia that I've dreamed since years ago.
- Li Ling (12/08/14, 6:35pm)
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