The idea of time, a celestial formation through which we pursue a strange reassuring basis bringing change. But the mishap in the perfection of rotation means what to you? If time is simply another unpredictability, are there only changes and perspectives to truly define life?

This is a compilation of poetry, words of change, angst, time, loss and wonders. The stance of change and surroundings on myself, and conversely, mine towards them. A raw copy of conceptions and questions that look back on time and transitions, the very nature of our planet which forms our ambience and our hardships.

Our perturbation for the future, a phobia of the past repeating, a dismay for the present. There is this fear in every soul for change’s new gift, and maybe even a trauma of those prior. We tend to allow images of what we used to own to dominate all we see in the present, but in reality you would never be able to mourn something you never held. So isn’t all we mourn simply change?

However, even time does not rotate perfectly.

Is nothing inevitable?