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narrative born from subconscious chaos: manifestation
There is a moment in the night, in the shower, in the quiet, that exist in its own temporal bubble
and you are within it, stuck like flies to tape, as if at any moment you will launch away in sporadic patterns of flight.
Instead, you scramble inwardly, madly, in psychic violence.
In spirals derailing consciousness
In which your words must be waking dreams
that decide their own narrative and resonate with some primal inner force.
Use the schism of lucidity as an automaton would
Made only to be the rechargeable champion of fragmentation.
When the fretful pull to uncover reason
Instead brings only idyllic, isomorphic shock,
Flowery discord that uncomfortably enraptures and obfuscates
Can inspire a noble venture into creation