Words. Rounded up and beaten. Cut, chopped and made mincemeat of. Restricted by distance and denied of the epiphany that lies across the stretch of land and albeit only a tiny expanse of water that the world can storm, it moves there thousands of miles away from where it should be, where it could be. It meanders through a minefield of thoughts, stepping in gently after a good sleep, during a good sleep, when awake, and vitiates the existence that continues without the presence of the flesh and bones it needs.
There is no hope, not yet, just a glowing green dot from a radiant image.
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