Life, four letters defining the infinitely small time spam that we are granted with no apparent reason, other than entertaining a vicious child that is obsessed with his excessively complicated ant farm.
Yet, it is so absolute and so fragile, such a beautiful gift or just a sadomasochistic joke. Questions shooting through my mind make me pretend I’m conscious of some sort of repressive self that keeps me from being one with the universal love.
Feelings that feel so real, in spite they are just dreams of a dreaming dragon from a far away land, where the sun always sets but never rises. Where knights in shinning armours never fight, but always die.
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