"Pens are drained of ink, as we conjure thoughts that sink, deep into our chests- patiently passing time until your familiar steps. Unrest. Tests. The rhythmic rise and fall of your resting breaths. My two seasons to your four. Somewhere in-between. Somewhere to explore." -Ramblings on duty.
We are not the things we create, rather, the things we create are us. Whos to say who is worthy of anything. Death is a constant reminder of life constanly surrounding us.
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