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someday there might be something, someday the eyes might see, sometimes in the

morning, I catch myself falling, sometimes I feel the movement, sometimes I feel still

sometimes I am the wind flowing backwards to turn again the windmill, someday I

am the flower, twisting in my hand, someday I am the hour, everyday I've spent, held

within the nothingness, held within the way, someday I am the leaf falling, sometimes I

am the tree, sometimes I am laughing and someday I will play the song, the song that

is somewhere hidden in the aethyr, the song that is so long, for once it is written, there

there again, no going back, once it is gone, it doesnt return, sometimes I am the shadow

above the stream, flying to be seen, sometimes I am in the stream, fighting the powerful

flow, sometimes I am the fallen leaf, drifting down to go, where, where again, drifting,

drifting into the dream, masking reality with feeling, feeling reality within, dreaming a

dream none could so match, dreaming a reality so unreal, that along the trail there is

catch, the wicked lightnings strike, the guiding hand of death, the torment, the torture,

the unawareness is aware of the unconscious consciousness, experiencing self of selves

experiences, remembrances of remembering the years, all of the years in knowingnesses

wisdom, all of the wise mens knowing ears, all the words, gone, the meaning, settled,

all of it, vastly beyond belief, every hidden moment of sin, every shown hand that doesn't

win, just to deal again, choice meal, just to erase the erasures clapped, things too honest

to reveal, things about things that things shouldn't undo, yet things that shouldn't have been

and things that should have happened more than once, and things that shouldn't be real

all of everything I did, still did not make me whom I am today, because all of the things that

happened, although they did happen to me, to create sand in the hourglass is to reveal

the trick, where once was emptiness, there once was space, now only to be clear once more

although I was always who I have been, I am becoming more who I once was, existence, in

repeating the same things, always finds new ways, to say the same thing twice, or more, is

never saying the same thing, to read the same page a million times, only to find out its white

the mask, to hang it up in the mirror, is just to pick it up again from out of a world so queer.

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