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there's no substance to the blessings i've never accepted, i just put the names in my veins and sung it to those who wouldn't listen. every wrong word's a sentence, a right one nonexistent, and i can't dig myself out of a hole i wasn't left in to begin with.
there's a perfect amount of blood on the pages i've written, all these perfectly painted portraits of all my blood-red angst-stained visions. nauseous and sweat-drenched, i toss and turn but lay still, ever awake.

there are too many thoughts in my head, i could fill the pages for days.
but i won't.

am i fully self-aware or am i just scaring myself? do i know where i am, or am i nowhere at all? questioning if i'm played as who i act or if i'm just a song i never sang, but i still can't figure out just how to take back.

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This is an Experiment Evanston, Illinois

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