Unforgiving Realist.

In continuance with numerous dawns of awe, has come an afternoon of a multitude of mirages. Sand and water, water and sand. Only merely sand. Quiet dunes of them flattening, then disintegrating. Shaped like breasts, those coagulated collections of time, blistering, giving up to the loveless casual breeze. Making the road ahead shine in illusion. With quite a few lies that we tell each other and ourselves. Now, no story can be untold. Or shameless truths reversed. We hallucinate and see the tiny feet of fair little children and hear the gurgles of their laugh. Distant, fast merging with their echoes, reflecting from godforsaken walls. There is no tearing away of tireless sleep from such eyes. Fabricated lies, conspired existence. Unending prose, epilogue prologue dialogue. There is no getting anywhere, because we are wired to come back right to where we started. So, we'd rather be where we are. And not move. Life is pointless, anyway. Is it not. 

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