I still hear its whisper even now, long after it has ceased being there, the voice I hear in my head, the echo of something once real, now merely the remnants of a memory I can’t quite shed, like the hum of a generator that vibrates through me, stiffens me up and down, raising expectations that can never be, the stiff wood I wake up to that can only be accepted as dream, the lips I kissed that exist in a world that vanishes at waking, a hypnotic trance magically and most definitely sinful. I keep my eyes shut even as it dissipates, clinging to the fail clouds of it as long as I can before my conscious mind erases it, leaving vague impressions of what was, like chalk marks on a black board whose tale I can barely read after time.
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