I am a dream, broken into sharp fragments suspended in darkness. Once, I was whole, filled with light and hope, but time, like a merciless wind, tore me apart.
Now, my face is nothing but cracks and emptiness, an echo of memories that no longer belong to me. My eyes are frozen in a silent scream—they see but do not feel, they look but do not recognize. Every fracture is an unfulfilled desire, every shadow a whisper of what could have been but never was.
I reach out, as if trying to piece myself back together, but my fingers grasp only emptiness. Dreams slip through them like sand, like the night swallowing the last glow of sunset.
And yet, even in my brokenness, I exist. I tremble on the edge of oblivion, but I have not yet faded. Because even the fragments of dreams can still tell a story.
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