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"Sadly, sadly, the sun rose;
it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions,
incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness,
sensible of the blight on him,
and resigning him-self to let it eat him away."
-Charles Dickens

its hard to believe that sixteen years have been lived, and i feel the way i do now.
I am so short lived, and yet everyday has the essence of five years.
i am digging and digging, and yet their is no rock-bottom,
just the beginning of the end.



                   i dont even know what to think anymore.
                   is all of this real?
                   are we real?
                   is having life the definition of living?

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buffalojane
buffalojane

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