I can feel the worn tapestry of something that is the color of dreams, but with the touch of memory, intertwined in the grey of the mundane. It inspires "What am I?" drifting from my book of questions I shouldn't have.
I can sense it in the profound turn of the seasons. And the rhythm of the earth suddenly quiets and the silent melody of some place far away, wishes, just as I seem to.
I am left without breath: that worlds abandoned kin and this ones alien.
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