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Eager for tomorrow -- and after that nothing... over and over again

How long is a week to someone dogged by some unresolved vitality?
Not too long perhaps but the feeling is nevertheless torturous.
To chase the wind and have it easily swept away in an instance,
there is no life ever so lonelier.

It becomes sort of a motif in this routine to wake up only wanting
to go back to bed and hoping not to break free from a more tantalising
fantastical reality wherein my smiles are fully-formed and
in actuality more recognised than here in this very plane we are in,
where there is more of isolation and ignorance than pleasance.
It is simply not right - to chide man for the everyday coincidences of life;
this beauty is far more encompassing than ever thought realised.
It is then to that reality that a man, even if he or she is one step ahead
of every one else, will always remain in this plane of reality unahead;
the illusion of their observed advantaged is neither misplpaced nor mistaken,
it is simply a matter of perspective.

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Decide my fate for me

As though the wind may pass with golden steps from shallow graves, the warmth of her hands could not defeat January weather in England, proving that tests of fate weigh heavier than the insidious intentions of a warring tribe. Perhaps it is high time I engage in other methods more worthy of personal consideration. She left me in the cold when my reality cloaked in malady was in full motion, sweating icicles in the interior, punching my guts in gutsy ups and gutsy downs. She was my meaning. She is my void.