These days,

I reside in a place that I call Black Hole—

sometimes, a roll of rope would fall, which I will use to escape.

I am ready to pull it and climb with my cassette tape;

but without a minute passing by, it’s already gone.

I am back again, and nothing is done.

Falling Endlessly into the Black Hole—

pitch black, like I was under a huge and heavy shawl.

Just me holding the mixtape.

I want to stop trying to climb the rope;

but I can’t get up to hold myself and stop missing the stars that are full of hope.

It just feels like I am kept to continuously mope.

Do I not deserve to be out of this endless loop?

I have been here for ages.

How many hardships do I need ’till I reach the end of the pain pages?