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slpendour, and another complex sentence to the vast ocean of regret, consciousness the

stream where Death walks hand in hand with I, the wall that is built through and through

where words are formed and forgotten just as quick, where all new light takes on old

meaning, where all old minds go to die in the believing, splendour, white mask left

bleeding black blood horizontally, creating lands so enlightening, through the cracks

past the seams, revolution of the angel to dance the wicked fiend, you fiend, to dance

one leg past the stepping stone, through the wall the skeleton hand goes, and somewhere

through space the staff from the tree, who knows who made it, who knows where, who

knows, somebody, not I, and wherefore art thou mystery, another dive, another throw

and anyone I once was, still statuesque, standing upon the boulder stone in the forest

lay, poised upon an angels wing, my face, innocence in the white mask hinges on the door

frame the portrait, made the video before, realization is a crooked thing, crooked masked

mirror, what is it that reality dreams, what is it I fear, and wherefore art thou flowing divinity

past looking back, way past looking toward the sky, the cloud, the passing feeling, the mind

finds itself ways to bask in the break, and break again the scene, setting up the mischievous

want, and smash the vase, it breaks, to break again the flowers peace, and tear the garden

just to see the sun, just to see the blue that hast forever been, hanging since feeling is

and was, there again, and gone, once more into the desert sand, once more into the dust

once more past the ocean, come back, once more past the motion, one more step and

another again, one more hour to the sea, one more minute in the loneliness, one more

end, one more beginning, one less than three, she stands as just as a mystery as ever

nought could read what lies, all the books in the library, all the books full of opening

eyes, all in cursive the written history, the vision of thy self with me, thy vision masks

the mirrors face, could not find a dirtier leaf, buried beneath the grave, my body buried

where a skeleton was, my mind so thusly replaced, and lost again the cemetery, in the

yard just moments ago, the line, I forgot, the beginning wast frost, and the rest was all

somewhere left beneath the snow, a thousand seasons or more of hell could not quell

the hand, a thousand seasons or more of woe could not make me a better man, a

thousand seasons of suffering would not open more my chest, a thousand seasons

or more with thee would not ever be enough, reality is a moving thing that moves

the summer sun, it moves it does as it does live, as living does bee, inspiring, to life

yes, I am a dead man with dead man's wants, yes, I am walking past the gate, paradise

I cannot return to thee, no more than hidden, no more than a wish, no more than a

second it was before returning again, no more then, no more now, no more doth thou

collapse, the mind must stand through the testament of all encapsulating traps, just

another motion, another wave, another, and another, and another falls away, with every

breath another garden, with every breath another scenery, alone in the desert finding ways

to quickly rearrange thyself, already was the desk known to be, moving, one foot to the left

and the spiders knew three days ago what the temple would be today, and doorways

align, and fire ignites, what is it that you are doing here mask, what is it that peers, so

longingly into self, the cracks get lost in the space between, where the spiral stairs envelop

lead is the mask in the hallway, spinning, the secret entrance to the other end of a web.

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