The night is his mother, the darkness is his father; Sleep is the brethren of death. The twins, in all glory can tear away consciousness, Gentle Hypnos in his cave, drawing a slow breath. In his fist Hypnos holds the reigns to memory and free will, The hours in his universe give way to the dust of burial. When the gold skies begin to cast a shadow We begin anew in the folds of our mortal material.
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