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It is that spectacular night sky that, shameless, spread before the eyes of the Lord, lures me to all the corners of the cosmos that I've yet to touch, bound by a sense of child-like innocence. It is in the secretive whispers of trees, or the stars in their forceful domination of Eastern shores, it is in a dream that, until now, I have profoundly mistaken for life.

The creak of a desolate door is declaring that I only need look through its keyhole, and I shall arise as a new conception. I am invited, by all, to experience you. I am being held hostage in freedom. I am being pulled in every direction towards every place I've ever regretted parting from, those locations as facets of my cognition which I still visit in my dreams, as if I never really left. This Procrustean bed, my tomb, signals my future as a budding flower, thawing on a Victorian veranda. I stand before myself as if to say ‘It is me, and I never truly left!’

I breathe because my lungs can hold no more, operating on the assumption that they will learn the same easy-going stagnancy as the featherbed that I am being engulfed by in these winter shadows.

I find I never truly dream until my eyelids part ways. Dreaming is the act of recalling, the melting fragments that you cling to, with a certain inherent knowing that the key to understanding yourself lies in remembrance.

The adventure of sleep, however, is what constitutes living. I am no more alive now than I was last night, in a deep, elusive slumber. I ought to admit, I was far more alive, for nothing had imposed restrictions upon my perception, unlike the forces of the waking present.

I am bound by chains to a material plane that I experience on an immaterial level. Everything I see is the inauguration of the laws of the universe, which can be cold and unloving in their poignant monotony. Dreams are omnipotent, and we can choose to be their slaves or their masters. In waking life, one has nothing but the cold chains of a servant binding one’s wrists in grief. What a night… What a night, dear friends, to choose omnipotence!

You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in

He is passion, etched desire, Unacquainted with a sun or moon Familiar with the pale fire That is often gone too soon A day without my love in arms Is waiting for the sun’s expansion That’s taking pro

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