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Night is when it overtakes me the most.
All day, It clicks silently in the back of my mind; forced to bide it’s time. It’s power gets dulled by all the preoccupations that demand my present focus. Like a light illuminating an ever encroaching shadow.
When that light goes out, It is sure to return. Less like a direct thing It poses more of a direct underlying presence. For It cannot be walked away from. It cannot be touched, tasted, or talked to. It can only be perceived. It can only simply exist. It is sure never to cease, lest I go along with it.
Alas, It can only be accurately described as It. It is a figure in the distance in whom to I can never speak. It is that marvelous cake in which I will never of have baked. It is a masterpiece never to be made. It is a book never to be bought. It is an adventure never to be fraught by. It is a serendipitous scene never to have been saw. It is a voice never to be heard. It is a constant buzz in my mind that begs to shouted at with silence; a shout that even if possible, wouldn’t cause It to shatter.
It will never go away.
The nothingness of nighttime is when It haunts me the most.
It will always persist.

For It, is all I am.



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