the art of dreams

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[It was a beautiful thing, really. It smelled like the sweat of a dancing grenade, and if you listen carefully, you can hear them call it...a "dream."]

i wonder if she even sees me.

do i need to send more fragments of my soul, 

or is my shadow all she needs to warm her shivering being?

we are young, but time is oh so old,

and i fear that his aged wisdom frowns upon my indecisiveness.

but a yearning inside me doesn’t care, 

and i dont seem to be going anywhere.