I wonder if I'm living some second life where I pretend I'm not a sad excuse for a person. If this life I'm living I'm actually happy again, which I thought could never be.
I write only when the living fill these coffins. When the dead rise again with the saddest of rivers flowing.
But maybe the pen has run dry because It's been scribbling on the Richter scale of the beating of my heart for you.
And my brain is functioning right because the cogs have been un-mashed and put back in their place where I can see that this place is only the door to eternity.
And that I need to open this door with open eyes and an open mind, with a pathetic toothless smile like that of a scarecrow whose mouth has been silenced for the remainder of what lies beyond that chipped, splintered, and wooden door of eternity.
The movie in this theater is now but a dream where there are no happy endings and no more I love you's because the dream has become a nightmare we all live with.
So turn off the screen and this theater can close down because I am happy again.
For now.
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