Little words escape my head, as I could not find the sense of recognition of putting a sentence together; I felt as if the story would be absent of pure emotion, for my heart was not correctly aligned with my mind as I’ve written. If one were to extract the words I so desperately needed to release my mind of under duress, I don’t believe I could form a single sentence, letting them become aware how this absurd feeling I possess inhabits the spiritual anger of ten angry lions. I can not simply dare put false sensory into a short tale without imagining the situation of circumstance myself, or feeling of some connection to each single piece of literary work.

It angers me, this torpor that entangles my mind of weak thoughts, oh, where had my mind go? Oh, where had the time go?


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