A Muted Life

Billions of tiny dots paint the picture in front of me,

but does it truly paint the picture clearly.

Hours, days, weeks go by in a moment’s time,

under the guise of my needing to stop and unwind.

“Where have the days gone and why do I feel so unproductive?”my humble thoughts cry.

“It went to that talking box in your bedroom,”my conscious shouts, “where all dreams go to die.”

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