Was this my life, or did I dream it? That seemingly rhetorical question might drive one crazy given sufficient circumstances. After all, isn't all life, "is all we see and seem but a dream within a dream?" like Poe used to say. Or as the ancient Greeks poetically put it: "οναρ σκιας ανθρωπος" (man is but a shadow's dream). My thoughts revert to these aphorisms, as I converge Opium by Yves Saint
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