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I am God's lie in practice. Con-trived. Fraud eyes of quasi compassion stalk life while acting. No swan dive to madness. My soft strides of absence came over long times. A wall fly. Detaching from all. Mind in fragments.
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Back to the wall where you’ll find me lampin’, on the corner of the street like George Formby used to be. The nausea proceeds the honeymoon period causing it to cease. You took it too serious. “You’re always in my dreams” became “Call me in a week,” but for all our disagreements, you’re worth every fuck I gave. I get enough these days but I’ll never love the same so I settled for the safe option, cemeteries and grave robbing.