Fictitous crystals amble across my vision.

Smoke plumes from the hole in my head.

Wires and cables reach out in negative space.

The netherworld that laid dormant swells.

I send birds to deliver messages of love.

But crosswinds redirect their pattern.

Antiquites of my selves leave a trail of dust.

I tear at them and scream.

But I have no voice.

Only echoes.

A reaction, like a shadow to the light.

My sallow, hollow skin portrays a life.

Dead skin clings to my skull, which is full.

I don’t exist.

I’m an autonomous agent.

A self-fulfilling prophecy.

I think I am, therefore I am


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