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My words eternal.
Stamped in to your mind in this moment, only to be pushed to some deep forgotten corner.
But there, nonetheless.
That man in the mirror.
He terrifies me.
Not because he is me as I am.
But because he is also me as I could be.
Old and frail.
Withered by time like the water on the land and the wind upon the sand.
I do not pity him because he  pales in my presence.
But because the hope in his eyes has died.
He looks diminished.
Worn down by life like the cut of a dull knife.
There’s but one redeeming grace upon his face.
Such a small glimmer of hope.
A dim flame in the cold wind.
That mercy will come in the end.
We will get to try again.
Playing with a dark thought.
Life is but a dream.
An incredibly lucid dream.
So vivid, we are able to dream within the dream.
While consciously aware that we are dreaming.
Only.
We no longer remember where we will be when we wake up. Who we will be. Who we are.
If Life is but a dream, then I am but a dream. Who is The Dreamer?
Who am I?
What are we?
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