I rise, I rise; awake but not alive. A day is born after its due date, over-nurtured and underwhelmed. The rattle from the wall unit is monotonous and drowns out the sounds of life which must thrive beyond the tight shut windows. Beyond the shades drawn to keep out the vile sun and maintain artificiality. Not a thing about this place is real.
Why create cold and cover up? Nothing is ever just right. Pitch-perfect is too perfect; death to the auteurs whose vision becomes our own. See for yourself.
The day is young, hopeful, naive. Filled with promise and possibility of completion. The day is young and it can grow into more than yesterday. If the fates choose to waste another arrow from their quiver to send a sign then I will heed its warning. I will let down my guard and relinquish control of the reigns. The dark horses of destiny may gallop toward dreams or death. I will not fight. I do not have it left. The cacophony of sirens singing my song will sound harmonious even as I am pulled, lifeless to the inferno. Good morning.
dm
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