Such is the Mind, that It Cleaves Itself

I awoke enfeebled; my mind so tastefully pleasing to a tick most engorged with the blood of my spirit that my imagination had all but run dry and barren. Its grounds cracked, trees slacked, fruits packed with lies of divine depletion, I found little left upon which my intellect could feast. Evil had found my Eden, my body of works weak and infected. But beyond this image lay my origins and from its wellspring of rations sprang a mirrored copy of my person, proportioned as a tick upon the tick which was draining me of my purpose. Doubly full of myself, my task is now that of transmuting my recollection. Sublime dreams bore out of excess cloud my skies with the promise of fresh life upon their breaking. Suspended, my secret gardens grow strong knowing they shall receive magic distilled of all disease; they shall blossom many worlds upon the complete collapse of the ticking time bomb threatening to implode my space-between, whilst I slumber. Its corpse shall be an empty sign for the return of demons in wait.

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