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I'm writing, watching, striking, playing, sitting. What else?
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The Parcae are the fates. Or Moriae, in Greek, if you wish.
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Back to the old cycles. It's just one long, annoying, emotional roller-coaster.
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Dreams or reality? Does reality decide for me?
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Searching, searching...
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The prompt: "Write about the inexplicable menace in a seemingly neutral object." The result? Well, erm...
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I'd like to make something different, a fresh start... But can I?
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Such a hard ways. Such choices. Dear me.
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It's messed up, this situation. It makes no sense. And I keep going.
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You're different now, you know. And we're growing apart. No matter how much we'd like to go back to the way it used to be, we're more different than w..
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