You are a vague memory, curtained by convoluted what-has-beens, probably one that I have just made up as a consolation to the bravery of surpassing fretful nights, when the air was cold and bitter and every breath was a breath of death. I was gasping poison unconsciously. Memories of you have been washed out. Cruel Mnemosyne has robbed off days that seemed so real, cutting them off from decadent neurons. Now it’s just the feeling that I hold onto. But even onto that I’m slowly losing grip.


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