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As I flip through the pages
of an empty mind,
No more then the wages,
Of a dead man throughout time.

Everyday something is writ,
upon those pages, my life is spent
unto anothers eyes, they'd never be seen,
unless that person were me.

There is one,
I wish could see,
only one,
in an entire sea.

She means more,
then the precious sun,
what is in store,
that is question one.