where you met the love of your life, or the baron, or the nightmare.

an eternal time, not so far off, was it? you can’t remember anymore, you never can. the graceful exit, was it graceful? you’re not sure, you’re never sure. 
so nothing does come back exactly the same. each window becomes precisely an unfamiliarity. so soon as we are aware it is the dark. it always comes, and well. 
there is a shadow in the woods of white flowers, where nothing used to grow but a mirage of cities inhabited by the undead
one-thousand syllables called your name and you were gone.

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