Paint swirls and shadows curl.
As the stitch comes loose, the wound lies bare.
My reality is going to snap.
On the swirling astral planes of subconsciousness,
a puddle of goo scribbling obsessions, riding the waves of concentric realities,
looking to understand the paradoxical notion of eternity,
and the possibility that existence is nonexistent.
What if God really is there?
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