There was a time we gave up living
just to live...
We would land in places
No morning was alike,
or sunset the same pastel.
Only a palette,
a cosmic palette hoarding shades
of never-before-seen colors.
but a dream it wasn't.
It was a lucid reality,
interrupted
by the occasional
crank of a wrench
by a man named mechanic.
Out there on the road,
no days blend together.
Each day is its own
line of paint.
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