I keep waiting for an excuse to hurt myself but nothing out if the ordinary happens so I do it anyway. Just another lie. It's controlled, isn't it? My eyes are burning to stay open.
I could listen to BVB all night. What is to happen to me? I hate this foreboding ache. To be free of this pain is to be nothing. To be nothin history drift away in the wind. That's the relaxation I need. To be a feather and to fly. Without a thought or a life. One might be external.
I'm sorry but I don't even know what I am saying. But to bra feather sounds nice, wouldn't you agree kitty?
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