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You won't answer my calls
I'm like a child who cries itself to sleep, but instead of crying, what I do is think. I think myself insane, analyzing every bit, until my heart rate quickens and I work up a panicking fit.
Don’t take my words And put them on a table. And cut them open Like a corpse That is being dissected. My words are not dead They are very much alive. But they require Your imagination
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