storysong

He lives in a world with glass walls of refracting light. They call for outstretched arms that never meet window. The image they bear isn't perfect but it is beauty. The walls hold everything he ever wants. They hold the love he's always loved. They have the home he's always sought. There behind the window is the man he thinks he is. And yet there's the wall. He will always pursue the wall. And the wall will always be a wall. His eyes won't see the mud of earth nor the skies of smog. The sky in the window is a perfect blue, or a powerful gray. The glass shows glory it speaks perfection. The tears in the window are the cry of the bard. It harrows the heart and embraces. All he finds on this side is empty. The stories don't make sense. There are no conclusions, no revelations. Just dull echos of what's behind the window. He lets the world fall for the sake of the world he can't touch. He leaves the world of untimely stains for a world where every blemish tells a story.

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