thethingsicarry
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Stuffed in a large bag is a book.
I carry this book, and sometimes the bookmark is more intriguing the book.
A bent picture of two young people on a date marks the pages which have and have not been read yet.
I carry the restless nights under my eyes.
Tugging at my shields engraved with demise.
And the pressure of the heavy hurt I heave
Is lightened when the hot tears of hope leave
