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Too much freakin' feels this week. I can't handle them all. I feel like a leaky bucket... Or a poorly balanced motor about to shake itself apart...
Remind me again why some people find emotions pleasurable? Foreign concept...
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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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