sit. and dream. what mountains we are yet to climb. what rivers we are yet to sail. what clouds we are yet to touch. the instrumental man. so beautiful in its form. so timid and weak. and a confused paradox. this man within. the inner self. in the world around, slipping away from the allegory of dreams. slipping away each second. like a heart in a box. stuck at the bottom of a dangerous cave. feel the time is running out. look around. shaking heads, violently from side to side. the string of stars on the night sky, like christmas lights. are out of filament. the thread is torn. slipping away. and you breathe heavily. your heart screaming. in side your body. and tears pouring out of your skin. this cloak of shame, and confusion, and harrowing servitude. to life and the beating heart. it churns the life out of my bones.
where do i even start? like a heart in a box.
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