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Is there a point to all this? Some sense of release hidden behind years of Doubtful ventures into nothing.   Can I outstretch these fastened wings, And search for some greater feeling,
Listing. Go up.
driving down the highway with nothing but my sanity barely clinging to reality staring in my vanity chasing after clarity
She stares at the blank page Then at the far wall ”We’re all mad here,” it says Whispering Yelling Beckoning I feel so small A tiny version of myself Balled up inside
How does the narration convey the idea that Meursault is a simple man to the reader? He’s not  He’s not  He’s not He’s not He doesn’t have access his emotions He’s taking it day by day
A year ago I had been frozen. The frigid frost had seeped into my mind, Spread into my heart no matter the obstacle I had set before it And I could not stop all my senses from becoming numb to the world.   
Soft pattering on the roof,A steady blanket of feather-light rain bathes my house.The dark periwinkle color peeking in through the blinds;It's safe.  Paws padding softly over to the window,
My wrist, formless, shifting and breaking like a cloud;You grab hold, tightly--too tightly,And I vaporize before your eyes.  
i will never know how to breathe without pain there will always rest a parasite in the wrinkles of my brain speaking in code to my uterus and to my esophagus, this "being human"? i'm bad at this
It will be gone b
It is a dense fog As thick as pea soup Struggling to suffocate me Eyes unable to see mere inches ahead   It is a storm cloud overhead  Ominous and dark Filled with rain about to drown me
you can lose yourself in nothingness if you want to   the number of times i've done it myself are countless   in the nothingness you are numb and feel nothing
I was on my computer talking to some chick I barely knew. I can't remember the conversation, but it was a nice chat. She was surprisingly friendly.
I cannot breatheI am desperateI need you to speak.
These hands can create Works of art.
You act like you can't stand the sight of me
Of the train according to the front, after the order of 1000 suns cry eyeball - can all combustion terrace.
Aforetime another wretched night Many a tempest raged the Heavens And One sat vacantly in that rocking chair Her thoughts a bleary cloud Continuously a flurry of reasoning
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