I have become a dream undreamt, a heart that never loved. My lamentation is not so tragic, it is all the more sadder how mundane it truly is. Who will cry for me, if I cannot even cry myself for myself? I wish perhaps some great suffering, if only to know that it be finite, and at the end to know that these “dues” everyone harps on have been paid in full; I have no hope for great joys. Or perhaps all of this is a passing fancy, and I am in truth happier than I let me in on — mayhap I am ready to spring some sort of surprise on myself? Truly, I am of two minds, half great, half pathetic, which blur together in some sort of muddled stew of consideration. So full of sound and fury? Signifying? No, let it not be so: let me raise a glass to ever glass that could not be raised, for the arm to cheer subsided into that good night. I have breath in me still: I can still dream that dream, my heart can love in some hopeless cause. Time has not done me in, quite yet.
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