If man was not limited with the time of his life,
He would halt in front of the abyss of his own death without being able to move,
Even if he lived forever.
And if man was not limited in space with the time of another,
He would not find one single content
That would fill the void of is world.
But time in him is speaking to him with the words of death,
Peeling off layer after layer of embankments of timelessness
As long as man lives so as to
Fill the voids of the given time with contents.
But the voids remain the same,
While their abyss is getting bigger,
For the time is running out.
Contents spill over only from death,
Being the only ones worth of proximity in the remaining time.
For you have always been only a remainder of time on the path of the acceptance of your death.