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NIGHTMARE
In the ruins of crystal and pearls, time is a flowing silver foil.
I stand on the edge of reality, my pupils reflecting the eternal chandeliers.
The water rises to my ankles, the TV hisses static, and I am rooted to the spot, watching myself sink slowly to the bottom.
Some say blue is melancholy, yet it feels more like a transparent shield.
Wrapped in a bubble, I shut out the noise—and all genuine human contact.
The floating statues, the withered flowers, the water that submerges everything—all are my unhealed wounds.
I have always stood on the edge of reality, unable to blend in, yet unable to break free.
Perhaps true freedom is not breaking the bubble, but learning to breathe inside it.