surprisingly enough it's not suicide. the happy dreams of distracted bliss no longer overcome my enduring sense of loneliness. reality continues to press into my mind faster than before. my regression appreciates itself, and exponentially increases the rate of return every time i manage to escape. my own sensitivities, as ridiculous as they are,
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forget trying to figure out what to call it. just pick it up and start digging. it would still serve its same purpose even if you called it a dinosaur. it wouldn't taste good if you called it dinner, it wouldn't smell good if you called it a flower, and i gaurantee if you threw it off the porch it would probably land on it's ass.
i hope you had a chance to enjoy the rain today. it was beautiful.
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its the journey that matters, so journey on bruddah
and remember, no woman no cry, ey mon?
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