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Feb 15th Muse

Lying on his stomach, we find a man; tattered clothes, tattered memory. He’s not awake, but he’s not sleeping. The ground beneath him feels soft and the grass shines sprinkled with early morning dew. Moisture particles float around him soundlessly, cold air engulfs his senses, but the sun begins to shed its dark covers. And the live earth is still.

There are bright spots here and there. They may be lights, but I’m not sure. When I open my eyes I see blurs and stars and darkness rushing at me. So I close my eyes. How long have I been here? How did I get like this? I don’t feel sick. I must open my eyes. Now. Now is the time. Rushing, rushing, rushing, everything is rushing at me. Oh God, how can I open my eyes?


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