Smudge of paint

It’s become too late.

Too late for you;

Too late for me.

But my brain keeps painting

Possible pictures

With watercolors of impulses.

Nothing hurts more

Than taking yourself out

Of the naive sentimentalily

That had been in charge until now.

Time doesn’t exist.

Hearbeats are fictional.

Breathing is pretentious.

Life is nothing but

A smudge of paint.

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