“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

Abraham Lincoln

Maybe in a different paragraph of the same story

I’ll understand both sides, I’ll sympathize with the instrument being played

rather than the hands that are playing it.

Maybe I’ll interpret music, like a canto

from take one till take four

and applaud the musings in the music, and the

scattered parts of my brain lying on the floor.


Why can’t the effects of the mind and its working, let flow the faucet interrupted?

Everybody knows, explosions fantasize about the calm anyway.

Like the river ragin’ at the soil like a bull, not letting it create its own path,

New inventions and meanders heard erosion and took a stand.

What are these bonds we create but mere phantoms looking for ways to stay

Like the thread that keeps cloth woven, yet we thank our body for the warmth and not such day

Roam lost, you’re but a feather shed by an extinct bird, going with the wind.


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This right here, keeps me sane. You will find here, sincere thoughts mixed up with a subconscious trying to fuck it all up. I hope you understand.

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