Another morning passes, and I am filled with polimorphic sanity. A thousand unrestrained brush strokes gently curling through the clouds. And here I am, but a spirit bathed in the decedence of first light. Where has that golden sunrise gone to? As a child I would gaze up in wonder at an endless, liquid horrizon. Shaping the morning in it`s own sacred inclinations. And though I keep my eyes aimed skyward, the dawn comes only after my shadow`s last descent. This journey shall be the keeper of fates, and I am the alter upon which destiny is forged.
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