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vast is the ocean, more avast the depth of sin, couldn't paint the mask yet painting is the art

of a wicked fiend, a room full of doves, last night's dream, remembrances of better times

and all of the days that await in thee thy living creature whom does mask thyself so well

to think once the thought was believed, to think once that the sound of the bat rings bells

breath of life so fleeting it twas, breath of death how i know thee so well, so well, a dropped

monologue, the serpents speech, the sermon written in a language of thieves, backwards

and forwards unto the arm swinging, happiness was a paradigm, to be happy, thou laughing

fiend, the mask in the mirror tapping the glass, the millionth of a second hand moves

the pocket watch in the vest of the white rabbit is broken, who could have known the hour

glass in the pocket watch frozen, who could so aspire, the golden encasement of drops of

dew shine silver on the lawn yet cut, the puddle as deep as an oceans cave, the tune oft

dropped and started again, plucked the feather midair wouldve I, if only it wasn't so,

the way the feather falls, as a leaf does fall, as sand in the hourglass moves, from the centre

to the outer edge of the living beings tapping, tapping on the glass, all falling in time, all

misrepresentation of what it is that catches, the gears spin, the mechanism, the spiral oft

so unbeknownst, allow me my disguise in realities dream, all me to be surprised at the page

ripping itself to shreds, allow the mask in the mirror to speak, and what is it that the mask

says, nothing again, nothing so outlandish a fiend to wickednesses masked truth, where was

I going, what was I doing, trying to stay in tune, with the song she sings, the hallways gleam

left myself against the grain, the rain must fall as teardrops fall as sand does fall again, as

leaves do fall from the golden tree, as the dream of the dream I can't live, opens it does

the key from out of the book falls yet falls it does upon another key, upon another word,

another unknown history, walking toward to the tune the mask sings in the mirror, and

what a world, what an unknown world, arises out of the immensities of aethyrs gathered

round to swirl, to twist, to bend, wast nothing more than a warmth by the fireside, nothing

more, nothing less than everything i've ever wanted and it is nothing I shall know again.

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