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My mom tries to take care of everybody but herself, and winds up helping nobody, especially herself. I try so hard not to be the same. I don't want my daughter to grow up like me.
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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