It is the soul in tiny bits what I might try to summon.

There is me, there is my skin, there is the arms that hug a few only, there is the eyes on the sky.

It is the soul in tiny bits that which I might try to summon once in a while at the hearing of trumpets. I fear the existence of nothing underneath says the tune I linger upon. Yet I dare once and again. The epic is a mirage I dream upon, within and over. I exercise the nerves and the fingers till a cascade falls upright, bathing the skyes, soothing my eyes [No one, no one] It might be I who anybody else tries to summon. The moment is mine. Thoughts about to collapse. I steal my own tricks. I imagine.

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