things heads down for the worst. it seems or the picture is already splash painted to mimic all that goes against life against freedom. the brushes placed back. the paint left to dry. but all of whats left is blank and empty. if sustenance is unable. sunlight diminishing to minuscule amounts. fighting to reach or just procrastinate under the warmth of our blankets. whats the use of fighting resistance if all thats remaining on the outer shell is just an echo carbon copy of the internal self. but again and again repeatedly we try falling is all that more natural. retrogression just paves the path down the yellow brick road. perfection aint it.
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