This morning, my eyes wore out, cold and hazy. So residual; still my stomach holds the consumed absinthe. My burned and raped soul; still nomadic to the thought of city life. Working, and by evening, only left with a residual bit of life to kill. As I drag my being to a vacant room, and the four walls befits my vacant soul, like a caring guardian. A dim light bulb, which flickers all the time-each night, as if it has it own tales to tell me. It hurts my eyes. Even though, I look to it, and the slanting lights penetrates, self-inflicting torture, each second passing, seems like a mere mocking .
I sit and gaze deeply into a mirror, kissed with thick layer of uncleaned dust.The reflection seems content, no hue of bitterness, as if i am all normal . It projects me vividly, playing with my internally smugness; is it a crime, if I flinch for a moment and soar up high, my thoughts ceiling ed, life painted in azure. All these are a fleck of my imagination, or a reality wrapped in me, I dont have an answer to that.
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