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What I saw in a house now gone, were all my dreams realised. Every change affected as I would have seen it done myself, only it's occupants lay devoid of what had been built. Languid, in a sickly repose and most awfully cushioned by the walls my dreams assembled.

Confusion fuels, my anger builds and for a moment I see myself, not as a mirror reflects but as a butterfly effect. Two results of altered events staring at one another. I know this is me and he knows that I am he, yet we refrain kind words or embrace. Two drops from one soul who cannot confuse their differences.

Look at us. Every story we could hope to tell spoken by who we have become and what I see, honestly should not be me.

A well of tears began to tremble. I took a step, and another, forcing movement so a busy mind would muffle reflection...

Avoiding a sadness that disguised jealousy.
Avoiding scars made visible by this polarity.
Avoiding a pull to dwell on the unnecessary.

What I see in a house now gone, is but a guest in an old home.