The Night Wind

It’s just another night.
I just want to follow the dreams of delusion, laying awake with eyes with faded vision held wide open. I want my dreams to float along with the tears that burn those brown pieces of glass, but do not desire to be dropped. The fragrance of night wind brings back the memories I desire to never turn into a memoir. I better let those drops flow. And my dreams along with them. It’s dark. No one would notice. Ah! I remember that it doesn’t make a difference. And this smell, the one of roses outside my window, makes me go numb in my senses over and again. The red petals seem so colourless. But I can make out the thorns. There they are. They never lose their colour, even though only a few care to notice. It is good, though, that there is no clock in this room. It is different when you feel time cutting you, through and through. I do not know, if that feels good or bad. Presently, I do not know if it even feels. I can wait for the daylight. It is not a wait that would not fade out its intricacy even after knowing that there exists nothing to wait for. I have a hope for the dawn. Sooner or later, it will let me come across itself. I just need to survive the dark. Or teach myself to live through it, with a lost self.
But no. I would search for my self, once it is light, once I perceive it to be, and recollect that someone who used to be called by my name. I believe he still exists.

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