"Time... Time to live again, yes?"
It didn't even serve as a question anymore, since the answer is known, and has been known. Every time it came about again: now was the time to live, to exit dreamland, to walk amongst the living and above the dead. Our faces are no more, no, but one unified construct, and our voices no longer a chorus, but a single one. And together our foots fall as one. It always came at the end, as I realized it. I would be walking and conversing with everyone, each unique face of my own accord; their mouths moving, and I unaware of the strings at my fingers.
Are we naturally so small in each others presence? Our minds so separate? I remember calling out to you in my dream, did no prayers reach you?
No, the walls here are nothing but air, wide-open air stretching for miles, across continents, across light-years; it exists within myself. I sit and nothing comes of it, same as if I had worked, or if I had dreamed, thought, wept. Inside of that, the death of all of my passion, and it's residual emotions null. Thus, we only feel a need to wander and find a loophole inside of ourselves, feel the urge to dig into our minds and find what we're missing in our consciousness. Do I mean to improve myself?
Improve, as if I was meant for anything more?
Split; I'll stay as such.
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