it is not a new story, but one told through this voice, this time. . . the voice that strives to hear itself in truest form. . . it is an exercise in muscle, a peeling and a prying away, a pushing through and a purpose of being.
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I drew a bit of all of us in him
the man on the train regarding no thing in particular but with a melancholy air and noticing he couldn't see me — or didn't i sketched him beneath a heavy brow, which he couldn't fully know some light. we bid adieu
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