paint a
picture of this emotionally squalid got the fear on now something chronic but I have music inside me so I’m not that far gone not
a damp eye in the house must be the
season of cynics I’m too tired to make
adjustments this late in the deal
lately, I’m riddled with doubt and what if it’s bad? but what if it’s good? but
what if it’s bad? and what if they
laugh? so what if they do? it’s
the bloody psychogenesis of crippling
inertia my head is black with
trouble and I’m weary of the conflict
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