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To wake up every day,
only to go back to sleep again.
then wake up again, to bathe, cook.
read, think, write.
listen to music, watch the classics.
go back to reading, thinking.
and the same, every day.
yet, I do imagine this Sisyphus happy?
the hour of consciousness here lies in realizing the enormity of time.
this indifference must continue, however.
it laid within the depths of time in tram rides,
within the steps towards the terminus,
within the melancholia and mania of asking why and how?
the mundane is where lies the Sisyphus, in happiness.