He would open his eyes to see the setting of the sun-there’s no rhythm. Silence, maybe. For as he slowly lifts his feet to dance, he can barely remembers the last embrace of the words that had took him away from the noise made by the past. Had I been the witness of his paradox-maybe? But there’s no timing slow enough to move along with him, not even the slightest momentum to pull him back from his strong delirium.
He would look up the darkening sky, the colors reflecting the lights that flash back in him. He would whisper the faint chants to move back, maybe, to take off the regrets he is feeling inside. No matter how much he had moved forward his eyes still contours what seems to be a part where everyone doesn’t want to let go of. There were no colors to reveal his melancholy, for as he passed through the deepest abyss he would simply fade out. I can see he had run out of memories to fulfill and dreams to remember.
Maybe it’s the scent? The addictive and distinctive scent of losing what was way beyond any paradigm. It’s was all make believe. For as I watch him close his eyes and fall back there is nothing to remember him of, nothing to sought after. For now, he had been a phantom…
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