nothing more and nothing less than a future memory,
and all outside my window.
How lucky can one be?
It's as if I see it happening,
but I'm unmoved.
No sense in explaining, no sense in restraining
what I know will come.
What am I hiding from?
In my own 'safe place,' I look out from my window.
No one is safe here.
Not even me.
I picture, a movie, a scene.
A nightmare I'm living; a dream.
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