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 Silently waiting for our mortality to disintegrate our dreams. Destruction is the ultimate truth then why don't we believe. The things that we see. Destruction wrecking all of us day by day. Still we don't wish to foresee the wrecking catastrophe. We should award ourselves with trophies for going on with our lives being oblivious to the infinitive which is spreading it's jaw to devour us. But following our paradigms we go on, many of us being naive and coward look for the ultimate glee in thier implanted supposed wishes and dreams without recognising end as there ultimate peace. But some of us know our inevitable doom becoming numb to all the crests and troughs of the wave we are riding on. Being unabashed by the monster of the deep seas they row their boats with oars of courage and frivolity.


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Confines  of the essence. Giving a scent of changing effervescence. When nothing makes sense. Going feral trying to construct bounds, building a big fence. But the effervescence of the changing seasons marks the end. When the fervor melts. Thing which once were started to lose its essence. A sense of dread seems to have no end. Every last relic of the ever present's presence's remains absent. Everything goes in shambles. Trading the places with the one who writes fables. When an instantiation becomes the writer. It couldn't end all the things which were. Depth of an instantiation fall short off the essential. Their impacts aren't pivotal. Only a reminder of a power. Which could be harnessed by the unjaded.  
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