we compose our life in stories we tell ourselves
...there is no map of the soul because we make it up as we go...
...I retreat into my fictional world where everything makes sense - but even there I can't even control what people do...
our hearts break, and take us out of relationships that are too painful for us
when I see you, I see mystery - a pale moon's beauty behind a veil of cloud
after life has broken you open, perhaps you may create art
I am a bed of sparks you breathe upon and kindle
yes, writing is mostly a dream, but angels visit in dreams
Your window square a yellow kite, and the Moon a white balloon
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