And the feather of thought swayed with the lightness of the wind. They say, you have to be the wings of the bird to fly; to travel and unravel, to stay and drift, to be and be forgotten, to be seen and imagined, to be the truth and a lie.

The lights got dim, and the lamps burned out. It was dark. I stayed sprawled on the floor for days, with nothing to eat and nowhere to go, I lost sense of time and hunger. The stars and sun had long become a fantasy, and what remained of the world was the thought of what it used to be or what it could become. Remaining in that fetal position I waited for the world to born. I waited for water, I waited for life, I waited for God and I waited for death. Nothing came to pull me out of…

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