Its a synesthesia that collides with every possible mixture of colour,
An echo that sounds like a screech of a violin or a manic pianist performing,
It's neon, but it is also absence of colour
It is insomnia while mid-day.
And oh god i love the antithesis,
How gracefully people have baptized us bipolar,
For how elegant and harmonic my
self is.
How much i adore, the differences
The escalations.
How romanticised
My torture is.
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