The sacred consciousness of the projected starlight mirrors his soul.
Cuddling the ethereal magnificence of a lifeless shadow, once alive on Earth.
To him, it’s all familiar—the harmony of existence and the melody of his heartbeat.
He’s been here before, seen it all, but there is no elixir for consciousness, he knows.
Seasons come and go, and so does he, in different forms, shapes, and sizes.
He loved women, and he loved men. He loved them all, for he was not always a man.
Solitude reminds him of the old days of war, where he was a soldier.
He killed and was killed with honor and respect, until his last breath.
They asked him to share his story. He refused. They didn’t deserve to know then.
Knowledge without experience turns one arrogant because fear is ever-present.
Emotions are temporary. He has no need for them, knowing they make him weak.
He observes souls trapped in madness and despair, but he knows there is nothing to do.
They would call him crazy if he offered help, for they are far behind.
Only someday, after many clock-ticking lives, will they understand.
He is neither afraid of life nor death. Nothing really scares him.
Energy is his only interest, for which he sacrifices his finite present lifetime.
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