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For all these years, Thin like organdy, I’ve wandered under Some sickly guise Some sickly guise That I hailed as an apex of truth
Write when you are empty. Spend your days burying your thoughts in print, allowing the words to take you deeper than your feet could ever wander. Write of the rains of November, of bruised sunsets,
to drink is good; good for the soul, though only if, you lack self control.   imagine this; picture it quick; you've drunk until you're not quite sick,  
I am full. My skin is bursting. These organs are bloated, my brain is water-logged.
What’s in the glass? Is the glass half empty or half full? Pessimism versus Optimism Both have their pros and cons
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