I have become a caricature of myself. I splash paint at the mirror before me, trying to match its beauty. I am a dove gathering fallen feathers on the moss, trying to fashion wings. I am a fish wearing swim trunks.
Sometimes at night, or in the early morning when dim-orange streetlamps reflect off wet pavement, and silent breeze becomes truly silent, I finally see a tree as a tree, and my footsteps sound real.
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