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I'm working on itI’ve not decided yet what will be tattooed on me, but fear not something will,
The pills aren’t working, the eyes are still blurry, but the mind is still willing.
Lets watch movies, and get bored, and just start shooting photos.
Play the music so loud you can’t hear my heartbeat or my fear.
I’m not everything I thought I’d be by this age.
I have let so many people down, that I have pretty much given up on finding the one.
I wish I was a better man, but I’m working on it.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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