Haunters of the dead
We the quickened, their daydreams and night terrors
Our footsteps incessant and urgent over their heads
A solidity slightly out of phase
Or inexplicable shadow in the corner of their room
Existing outside of time
Living their already lived lives until it is ritual
Until ritual becomes routine
Sapped of all meaning
The point at which they have lost all sense of who they might have been
Born into the world as someone new
To spark and burn so briefly
Reliving this living until the memory of that person has long since faded from memory
Cyclical repetition in perpetuity
All that can have been, has been
We have all been each other an eternity of eternities over
The never death of ourboros

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