a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time.

Memory is a sweet drizzle
originating from the clouds of conscience.

An atmosphere made of nostalgia
and we are the floating planet.

The galaxies unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life

I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open

so was it a deja-vu
or my hands just slipped of the typewriter