what comes is the remainder, what leaves is the whole thing. we experience the most we can encompass and the rest is passed undigested. the incomprehensible is reduced to a fragment and we hold onto the splinter and call it a tree. all is disguise and metaphor, the latch bolt of the minds children, wandering alone trying on the costumes and fakery as if they fit. we dance with the madness and hold nothing back until the monsters grab our flimsy bravado and empties all our fears into the bucket of our mind. cheating the soul is the game of death and life leaves little for the heart to hold. every chance is the romance of feigned passions and unfelt truths, wrapped in the hyperbole of mental dilemmas and unequivocal requirements. what chance the heart of the child still free and joyous, let nothing stop the dreamers quest, journeys untaken rest on the wanderers heart more heavily than a million doorways, and heaven is best for the dead. reward not the punctuation and metered rythym of the lost hoping to gain the kingdom through ritual and denial. one glass fragment sits near the heart and worries itself deep. the soul has no where to hide and cannot be seen by the blinded ambition of the mind, but every heart awaits it moment without restraint. there is no lust but for the self to make real who it is and become exactly what it wants. all life divides across the line of unconsciousness and reason and in that line all madness lives.
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