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In the night all is good, the creatures for whom light or darkness paint the same art, awake or keep moving in the unchanging fact that time still exists in the dark.

In the sea of my assumptions, much inspiration got lost drowned by my desire to fit in.

In the dark, the light of my creation shines. Promoted by the silence of my own mind. Secure in the loving company of my slumbering hearts.

The sweet touch of tiredness touches me in the dawn, and I slip away into the embrace of rest.

Time. It doesn’t really exist.


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