There is no magic.
There is only what there is.
Magic cannot be seen, cannot be touched,
You can't smell it, it's not tangible.
There is only what there is.
And we only exist
where we think we are
Where the papers were packed
The reins of the haunted stairs,
Putting us in touch with fear.
And we know how to exist
And we don't believe in anything
Where the hurricanes of passion
They are reduced to faint streaks,
where we are left alone with touch.
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