It’s said that in dreams there are no strangers,
only people once been seen,
fleeting passes on the street—
distant memories,
never meeting,
our imaginations incomplete and
lacking creativity,
to recycle people’s beings within dreams.
It took me years to realize that
time is just as ethereal, that I'm
the ghost transcending
the fine lines and great divides—
not the great divines dividing me.
When I thought that I was passing time,
time was really passing me
and those who I’d once loved
are now faces without lives—
like something made of dreams—
not people who I've ever known
or people who've known me.
They’re only empty, aimless shadows
familiar in their shapes
without pasts, without names—
blank strangers passing in the streets.
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