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That throbbing thing in my chest can hardly be called a heart. It has been wrung out and deformed into something merely functional. Nothing can revive it
Anna Jae
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and now i am back in the grey world where it tastes like plastic, the monotony is buzzing through my jaws and the boredom is pulling my hair
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There’s always books. And the wind through trees
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> it’s raining.< what is?
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ever plagued by the naive hope that this timemy intuition might be mistaken

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