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Muted Real
Slowly, we claw our way towards the morning.

It is not an easy task - this night is long and it is treacherous.  There are thorns that cut us to bleeding, and a deep cold that seeks to consume the warmth inside us.  Voices of ghosts call out to mislead us, fill us with doubt.  Whatever faint light we find betrays us by casting shadows that then dance about and taunt us.  Our cloaks decay at a touch, our clothing disintegrates, we are left naked and exposed.  Our own voices cannot penetrate the stillness in the air, the silence that is only occasionally penetrated by the sound of a distant machine waking to life.

But still, we struggle onwards, against the thorns and the shadows and the silence, towards the daybreak, when all evils are banished and all fears are soothed by the balm of sunlight.  It will heal us, and complete us, and we might begin to forget what it was to be lost in the night.  it is a fleeting Elysium, but that makes it no less sweet, no less worth the battle.  Honey and clover, a warm breeze through an open window, a hint of bare flesh on your lover.


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