Misty days ahead, no shadows recognize my dark figure. The nostalgia sunshine is still bright in my retina, burning holes in the memento. Assist me in blowing out the fog surrounding the tales of past mirth while lining up new buildings that will eventually get lost in this dampness of me. The desert is not big enough to hold up so much, nor the ocean deep enough to make forgiveness an option to sail in the winds of time towards a new shore, where arid sand shall be waiting for my arrival. The masquerade is getting old, the party drawing to an end; will our faces be as bright as our trivial would-be-smiles? The clock is innocent for the passing time, yet it is a blackberry attaching sense of past to the ankle of its bearers. Tick another second for me you damn clock. I would hope for my recollections to be as effective as the sands of the desert, that forget after each breeze, but remembrance is strong in me, building a massive metropolis out of meaningless hours.
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