Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion.
To hell with them. Nothing hurts if you don’t let it.
Sometimes we become overtaken by sadness to the degree that we forget that there are many things in life that can make us happy.
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
a message a day keeps the blogger ok
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