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Standing on the tops of mythological cliffs,
Feeling the wind pouring down my spine.
Am I dead yet, or am I still waiting?
Biomorphic memory, flecking out the lemon pips,
Skin torn into vellum fragments, inked lightly with despair.
Who is standing there, or is it only me?
Leaping in an ocean of melancholia,
A physical existence that weakens at its dreams.
Why am I still here?