it is not still
it is not movement
it is somewhere
in-between
it is ugly and
imperfect
it is a walk in the
park
it is a
transcendental metamorphosis of our parallel realities
it is the tigress in
silence forever, waiting for her street urchin's epiphany
it is within all our
grasps, yet we are too afraid to open our eyes filled with torment of
everything the world conditions us to think that we are not
it is an empire
giving itself to the well-being of the people
it is hell freezing
over upon sight of the sun
it is anything but
cowardly
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