Coat it in blue so I may see right through to a world I never knew could be so cold and true.
Everything gets lost somewhere between the thoughts and reality. Words and ideas run away into darkness before use can be made of the small sparks that alight from left to right. This mind is weak and the memory wounded. Like a civilization without a single record the life rolls on without ever recalling a day before. As though each passing moment held no meaning for the next. Each day is birth and each night is death. Dreams are the echoes of days past.
The echo of a whisper inside rebounds, teasing this ever hungry desire for passion and creation. The sweet taste of pride in God's power resting in man's hand.
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