When is it that we’re really alive? Is it when our
souls first greet their tragic silhouettes?
Is it waiting for us in our first and last breaths?
Is it when we speak the truth instead of lying to
ourselves?
And what of the devil hidden in between lines and imaginary
friends?
Is it when we’re desperate for the run before the
crawl? For the murder on our fingertips, or the words we hastily scrawl?
Victor Millan
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