Lystan

  • The age of the drowning man has arrived.
  • Consequences of choices are ripe for the picking.
  • Candlewicks pick up flame and lick thick waxes down.
  • Entities dance to tuneless dirges.
  • Dreams of aisles and veils portend the desire of a dying heart.
  • Unnurtured soul cries — silently, bitterly — behind fierce mask.
  • Lost believer making their way back to the beckoning fold.
  • Pains, joys, tribulations mingle for perfect sustenance.
  • Cast adrift in sunless seas, tides ebbing, flowing to final oceans.
  • Ends of worlds no longer matter.
  • Maps no longer bear compass points to lead the way.
  • Directions are meaningless — the only choice left is to trod onwards.
  • Forward, forward, forward to bleak horizons feet doing the work.
  • Goodbyes are spent, hellos are still minted and unused.
  • Oceans swallow sleeping ships and spew them back to empty piers.
  • Baggages are packed, unpacked, and packed again.
  • Endless cycles of journeys, fares, waiting, boarding, and alighting.
  • Each moment whittles away what is left of the soul.
  • Like soap left out in the dribbles of rain — whittled away to nothing.
  • Soon everything will become clearer or more muddled even.
  • Life is a long long journey — it would not do to lose the instinct.
  • How will the survivor fare? It is always a question through eternity.
  • Torturous climb and bone-smashing falls always await close by.
  • The roads are strewn with regrets and alibis.
  • The dawn of the drowning man is here.
  • Hark! let the trumpets cheer.
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