Written in sharpie
I took one look behind the curtain, to find that within, was what I saught.
No longer something feasible, nor tangeable; inaprehensible.
I took but one look to find a scarce desert the alludes me.
A name that should long be forgotten.
My home, I pray now, is all encompassing, neither within nor without.
Yet... I pray our tie be quick, hearts be swift, for moments like these tend only lead to such collamity.
The nights I sooth them everlasting, like these mad remaining days, which like, these mad remaining days are but those that last few remaining. Like the moments that we take, do, and even say, just before they slip away.
This much remains true:
We are, and will be, all that is left;
but ash upon the feet of the generations to come;
The generations we shall never meet;
And the generations, we may never prevail, without so much as a mircale.
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Written cold and blank, an empty canvas to paint a portrait