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Scribbles on the page
Words out of my mouth
They mean nothing.

Jane Austen, Hemingway,
Even Robert Frost,
Their words are but words.

What do words mean,
When I have pictures?
They are nothing.

What are pictures,
When I have my eyes?
A thousand words.

But one thousand zeroes,
Or a million, a billion,
Are still nothing.

But what are my eyes,
“Reality” and time,
When I have my imagination?

My eyes, the “reality”, is fake
When compared to
The lucidity of my dreams.

But what of my non-lucid dreams,
the ones when I wake up-
Or does it fall asleep?- I cannot recall?

Perhaps these
These are the most real of all.

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