How can a hand I haven't held in so long feel more real than my own?
How can the flashing of blurry images made up of fears and desires draw out more emotion than entire days passed?
How can a voice you should never hear speak new words again contradict all logic?
You can’t call them dreams; you can’t call them nightmares.
They are a newly evolved breed of unreality.
Silhouettes, and gentle lines, represent an entire human.
An entire life conveyed in simple, thoughtless strokes.
How can they control me that much?