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Just Things...

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things, they are nothing but merely things only.
waiting, nothing but waiting, since life itself is a long waiting for the uncertainties of the anticipated certainties.
life, just athing. we make things out of life and the things beget again and again.
love, romatically beautified thing.
i just write things i just can't get through and imagine that i never meet. what if we never have our absurdities, life would be apile of mess of mere things. and i started to love my absurdities and make it beautiful.
nothing would have been this much interesting in my life other than my absurdities, they lead me throuh the craziness of normalities and the naturality of the culture, after all we are all leave to the eternal home of our nothingness.

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