Empty Thoughts On My Full Size Bed

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I can do this, right? I can do this, write?

It's all for the money.

Writing for money.

Give me money because I wrote something.

It's everything. The only

thing.

Not love, not compassion,

not enjoyment, not beauty,

not nature, not nurture,

not company.

But misery.

We cannot see the misery in the money.

Or can we?

We just choose not to,

because we want it so badly.

So give me the money

so I can get on with my life

of acquiring more misery.

 

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