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so, what are we doing?
often times things are lost in stories
words are lost in interpretations of poetry
dry paint is painted over on old walls and canvases
and people throw away pictures
of forgotten loves and romances.
we don't think about how the cracks in the streets came to be
or how some people carry sadness
or how we are the creators
of our own madness.
does everyone carry masks?
why do we wonder but never ask?
can we really leave things in the past?
or do they, always last?
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