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i know my story is to be told, but will i be the one to tell the tale, or will my shadow be the one to stand in the way?
january, noah's funeral. february, this shouldn't have happened. march, it's all my fault. april, i should have talked to him more. may, take a deep breath. june, i miss him.
I have something of yours I know it's been awhile, but better late than never, right? That's why I'm at your door. Not for you, but for me to move on. I cannot carry them for you anymore.
Straying, from the Northern Chunk of golden heaps, like massive straw beds sunbathing, sparkling. The moths fly southward to destroy more treasure partnering with the burning beacon