A place I call home in a fiction I reside.
What if in that world looms a seemingly 'end'? Stories barely written is now hanging off the balance of what could possibly be around the corner. Possibly? More like a truth. A statement of it.
A lullaby echoes, and I am left standing of what was once something that accompanied me to the late nights. Am I to adhere to premonitions and words now? Is it now up to me to extrapolate the possibility or are they just merely figments of everyone's wants and ideals?
In the end, it's not what we want anyways, right? It's the inextricable laws of 'gravity' that we must abide to and offer our unconditional salutations. In the end, that could be the possibility and I was just a incompetent puppet, strung and bewildered by the fiction "I" call home.
In the night time Sky Where I am free....
I am once again; alone.
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