There are lines that run out. And lines that never end.
But this is not one of them.
There's a quiet rise each morning. And a silent bang at dawn.
There's a reason beyond all reason that screams before it rings.
Sweep me under the sunset, and place me in the cupboard.
Fine lines never run out, but we are the uncircular kind.
The sort that ends. And the one that begins.
Wake each day and know the way.
Know exactly what to say.
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