bad dream

I feel like a ghost in a world of paper dolls. I am the ghost in my own machine. I am a ghost running through time and space, looking, always looking in the blackness for a sacred spark. And all this world becomes noise, a distraction from my task to find the one – the one who went alone into the dark. For should all he be is a fragment of fire, barely a cinder, it matters not, because I will become a river of gasoline.

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