This and That, My Dead Valentine

I believe in This more than I believe any else. For This is everlasting and escapes the bounds of time. And what can be called Real but not also everlasting? I say this not because I wish it, nor even because I see it, but because I know it - as in the way anything can be known. In the End, only Dreams of Reality can remain - and what will be said of dreams then? Dreamers already know.
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That is what I believe I can have. That requires no truth of me. I can hide in its illusion and cowardly deceit. Medals fade to obscurity but metals seal the deal. So That is my running respite. Where man betrays himself, to never face himself. An illusion of reality whose fruit we cannot bear. Praising our Proud Poison, we pray to empty air to ensure our despair. In the End, illusion brings ruin to its believers - and what will be said of illusion then? Only dreamers will be left to know.
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