most days i'd rather speak my words into the barrel of a gun.

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i need the smell of summer.
i need its noises in my ears.

these years alone have eaten me alive.

i dont take anything serious anymore.
because i know its pointless.
everything ends up being a disappointment anyway.

and there is no cure for the dreamer's disease.

and if it wasn't so cold, id swear this was hell.

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lets set our hearts at self destruct.