The most important things,
Forged in the fires of your intimate self,
All while you were sleeping,
They're embedded in the cells of your brain,
As a snapshot in time,
Though they may ne'er be in that state again,
Like the pattern of a splatter of rain,
But the impression e'er will be there,
E'en the shift of a cell,
Guiding your thoughts like water in a groove,
Or like bone by muscle,
Never the same,
Until the next dreams come,
Still, they will not erase what came before,
They can only build on their impression.
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