It's about that stretched out series of moments between dreaming and waking. When your dreams, your plans, fall away to the pragmatic barking demands of the awake hours.
Things central to your soulful progression way laid, sacrifice before the necessary.
This is my current time and small epoch.
And who's to bitch? Not me. Not in comparison to the wretches of this present world. There are many more due.
I was made for struggle and strife.
But I can't help but wonder. Of the other hours spent in speculation. In sublimation, in exercising more joy and art.
This is but a grieve for my life, as I rightly preserve the happiness of others.
No expression of martyrdom here. Just noting other desires.
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