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Shiver from second hand trauma in the middle of the inkblob, try to remember what words were there before you spilled them. The sad things live better inside you than outside you, and you try to provide a nice home for them. Your skin is nothing but cheap glass made by incompetent glassblowers. You’re a greenhouse for sad things that grow too large. The stars you gaze at are sick of you. You’re full of pretty words and yet nothing ever happened to you, you are not for real. You were never in any real danger, shut the fuck up.
