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What are words, but dancers upon a page? You once told me this.

You must remember that; the melancholic smoke of candles; of people; their energy burning; flames upon the very fabric of your world, burning it into oblivion. That was what you thought. Yet you didnt really, you put yourself infront of a curved mirror and tried to take on that twisted existence; you put yourself into the shoes of anarchy and anarchy itself spitted you out; you tried and you tried but you never did. You once said you didnt care about The Now. You said that The Now was irrelevant, rites of passages into your romanticist idealism, forever looking back and forth, saying what couldve happened, what might be. But that might may be tomorrow, then today, and then the might wouldve passed. But thats the point, you could never look The Now in the eye, you could never bear to accept the cruel reality of The Now which was The Memories and shall be The Next; forever locked in your existentialist zeal, apathetic to everyone. Yet people cared, people like me. We were in dark sleep when dreamy lights awoke from slumber. You talked about these stars; how we can only grab them if we jump blindly and flower upon them. Yet as we lay there in that dewy grass on that one and only true night, where our labours forgotten, everything and anything focused in that moment; in The Now, did you really believe what you said? Did you believe what said of your cities of dreams arising from suffering itself? All of our lives seemed to balance in that one instance, that one instance of purity. Everything was disbanded from that point; the very nature of your lives forever looking forwards and back towards this moment. But maybe it was just me who thought that. We ate, we danced, we drank, we dreamt; living out this innocence, this naivet; just for one. more. night. Then there was It; the true harsh nature of The Now. It was born within you, a childhood wound still bleeding, unhealed, infected by time, diseased by human consciousness. You never talked about it, except through your expressions, your expression towards Her. Her who so called fought for the children; fidei defensor; defender of the faith, the faith of corruption. And I understand. I understand this affliction. Yet you enclosed yourself with anger; built a nest of lies, lies borne from lies; deceit begetting deceit. So please take my hand for a last. Even if youre gone thereafter Because the floor is rosy This letter stained with thorny flowers Forever sealed for your lips Please, please just open it.