(Sometimes in the wake of melodrama all you are left with is yourself ; a vessel, some hollow thing that echoes if you scream inside yourself. After a succession of nights and inexplicable sobbing it is as if my lungs dry out and acquiesce, and all I have is a numbness that pervades my entire system. I try so hard to medicate this hard death inside me, so I fill my senses with material things to keep me happy. But maybe the sense of poetry I distill from my tangible material experiences isn't as shallow as I think it is if it can make me feel something other than this.)

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