Tangible
The costumes of grand conclusion
Onerous as the air
of conceding to your own folly
I cower
as a violent murmur lurks
where none suspect
Hardly the ideal of your perception
as my crystal injection admits
it's the idea of
which makes it a must
“We cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered.”
—Tom Stoppard, Rosencratz and Guildenstern Are Dead
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