Time has a borrowed dream. Sacred and True. Hollow and pale. Borrowed in myth was this dream. For it was not its own nor reality borne. More a creation of its own fading footfalls and whispered heartbeats.
As seasons race and reasons gale, the journey of life has by itself become a pale painting of an abstract emotion. And mankind melts in silent stupor while begotten sons of earthly thought prevails to sculpt perfect misery on pallid races. Religions rule and gods brood and bloodshed beckons all humankind to dreamy despair.
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