Waking up to the screams that blurs the annoyance of life is fortunate for life itself. I wouldn't crawl out of the contentment of bed if it wasn't for such even though I would love to lay forever.
Baring through life seems like a clueless wonder to me. The world is not what it seems. It's not what my mind wants it to be. I ponder on it, and it never makes sense. But what does? Whether I should be the mutinous girl of thought or complying girl of gullibility, I want to see a life of wonder that has the right to not make sense. Not this bullshit.
With the thinking of the backgrounds of what used to be, I remember the love I had for a heartbeat when I was a child. I would close my
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