Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?

Story is marked as mature.

The weight of the pendulum pulls it hypnotic'ly

Leftwards and rightwards from high on the ceiling;

Inverted, the metronome, favoured by Beethoven,

Marks out the beat, but is empty of feeling.

Well, unlike these instruments, simple machinery,

Potent emotions propel my life's tempo--

From joy overflowing to bleak desolation,

The grim alternation keeps me stuck in limbo.

Whatever is coming, it cannot surprise me;

As soon as I'm used to it, I'll swing away,

For nothing is lasting except for the rhythm--

I'll lose all I'm given; I'm wrecked every day.

The joy is ephemeral; pain's too familiar!

They cancel each other and nothing's resolved.

My life is a nullity, vacant of meaning:

I'll do my own swinging: A weight, I'll revolve.


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