Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
The Sun doesn't Walk.
05 December 2004 | 21:59

My eyes are the fire of the sun left as two dim embers. They'll feel the warmth of the Summer sky soon enough, and I'll be able to breathe again.

I'm losing concern. I'm gaining apathy. It's a cycle I've lived before, and this time, I know the loophole. This time, I'll not continue on a journy to Nowhere. I'm sprouting wings, and my feathers will feel the glory of the wind. I'll fly free to my freedom.

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