Sleep beckons, but your words read to me, for me, peal like bells in memory and I wonder, prone to the condition, curious, demanding, what will this do to your style; already changed forever like me. I do not think or suppose, I am beyond that now, knowing there is no always but now. Merge and create. The colors begin to blur, oils mixed in thick haste to cover the pale absence with light. Chords are stuck, the first time harmony, not even trying, aspiring, and your opus unfolding as I bloom.
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