tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow
never happens. still I got work to do,
and always set it for tomorrow
in a strange hope that sometime it will
become yesterday, without visiting today.
just massess of work flowing away
with my childhood strangely distorted
enter and glow. in aggressive neon green
dark groom appears under my feet as I step
into the future, trying to avoid incoming
rudeness of being impolite to myself.
thus while walking inverb aside the
existence I still have hope, that
tomorrow I'll not read slashdot, nor
funfromhell, and that I'll just
get my work done.