The creation of one?
Does a life well-lived have many layers,
And plot evolution?
Should one strive for a literature life?
One where no word's wasted,
Much is left for others to figure out,
Contemplating motive, like your face did,
When the content was like a waking dream,
Absurd but so normal,
Should one's choices all have the art in mind,
Asking the point of all?
Should we be books,
Using life as pages,
Constantly asking in ev'ry moment,
'What's up next?' as the storm inside rages?
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