Twisted up in torment, like some divisional play. I rather be awake for a thousand sunsets than a thousand dawns. Not knowing where all the scribbles left me, last time. Not knowing what to write, where I stand. Besides standing like a fool, of which I know, I am.
The last thing I could be is a sleepless fool, because in sleep; at least I know there is some purity left to me.
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