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A mangled tapestry of
Polariod tones
set to a soundtrack both familiar and vague.
A faint, fleeting brush on the arm.
The adrenaline rush of true nostalgia.
A dream had oft in childhood,
echoing across a cavernous hall
An estranged twin brother.
You speak to yourself, soft and slow
and I, the voyeur;
glued fervently behind the wall of the next room,
quaking with pleasure
The sound is beautiful.
