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Awaken as from a tormented sleepwith eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls. Mysterious mindset and ink droplets fall. Muses take flight in an all out war. Shall I catch with open hand or let it fall and start again? Such words burn the skin.
So enter stage right mic, in hand. Before the micro-cosm, stand. Display my efforts, after all, don't expect them recognized. Hourly torture, chaos ignite! Beauty and art give a sign of life. But, as Balzac and Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas.
Elusive horizon, I'm not a threat. You see, I'm for some reason always on trial. Object of detestation, always on trial.
O, Solitude, with thee I dwell in our assiduous gated hell.