nothing, not a thing, and like helium particle inside the zeppelin, or small hole in the ground I am crisscross applesauce between four familiar corners of an anon-type room, smoking bong to weed and mouth and everyday my love more so died long ago and leaves me here to think about time
it's interesting to me what happens in the ways they do and for what reasons why despite my feeling so dumb to be alive, killing everything just to eat french fries sometimes
my love of life is so conditional that it makes me wonder what's in conditioner and the answer answers itself and like, despite it all I am here, gone from the past, and forever the present presents the future
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