It's not the day you've been waiting for. It’s not your biography, but rather the story of the only man who fell through a cumulonimbus & survived. You are not that man & because of this the world is not yours. Please understand, you don't make the rules; Heidegger, after everything else, came to emulate Black Forest peasants.
You have waited in line for hours, but it is not yours. You did not write the book titled Ignore Me yet. It is not that day, which will arrive as a horrible machine much like this. There was once a terrible translator of the great architect's work who corrected blueprint flaws; these buildings became enduring structures in Europe & Asia, squat & tyrannical they stared at their cities like mothers-in-law thinking hideous thoughts. It will not be partly cloudy.
This little girl, why is she alone in the bourbon evening? She calls the machine angel-maker. The man is always is in the theater that repeats the life in the cloud. It tears at his clothes and flesh. He is buckled to himself. When someone else speaks, another cloud emerges. Please understand, the rules are loose & always changing.