
The state has no control over its affairs. Buildings crumble; each falling stone is another memory lost to the march of years, each withering wall a testament to dreams undone. The occupants are a mystery contemplated on by scholars yet to study them.
I think I had a home here once. Memories whisper through the desolate halls like a fading perfume. I remember vibrant debates and moments of romance. I remember passion. Sometimes, when I look into your eyes, I think you must also remember, but then like the barren landscapes we left behind, your eyes have no tales left to tell.
I wave it away. I speak to you of not letting me drink. I say, “the memories are full of intoxication. I cannot hold them back”. You laugh and pour me more. I think you enjoy the designs I make in the sand. I think you wish you could make them, too.
There are dreams so real it makes the days painful to walk in. Sometimes I wish to lock them away. The darkness is full of regrets, the light is full of revelation.
The state has no control over its affairs. There are no more temporary fixes or measures. Glue is not enough; it was never enough.
The sun casts shadows that threaten to catch me in their wake. I dance between long forms and short comings and pray to find safety between the cracks.
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