The mascotte in my dreams haunts me.
like the filters, it is hollow
drenched in pain and sorrow.
whatever they desire, is not for free.
You cannot make a deal out of a whim of the mascotte,
even if it seems so real.
but the urge to walk to it is frightning,
the warm aura caresses you as it does me
i bring you here, see for yourself
trauma wrapped in pages on an abandoned bookshelf
the mascotte is merely a thing, traumatic twin
of what your memories forsee