When hope has run and the lake is dry.
Companionship is all you need to survive.
So hop onto your horses and run up the hills.
Or hide yourself in a closet, to die in a ditch...
What is art without someone to appreciate it?
What is shouting if no one hears it?
What is running if no distance is traversed?
These questions I ponder upon my lake.
And so did he.
Sometimes, I wonder what my purpose was.
As to be a being with no place to run.
Nothing to seek, nothing to be.
It all ends here, without it nor beat.
