Genius misunderstood exposes thoughts in the nude only in the presence of substantial pain. The only way to gain strength of expression is through lost elucidation of this wasted atmosphere I end up holding so dear. A squandered release of the semblance of strength caught in the middle of the in between makes it almost seem like I have grabbed onto the precise joints and I’m about to slice in two perfect halves the purpose of life. What for… the heresy of this irony?

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