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| 16 Jan 2012 09:44 PM |
Stuck. A deserted room. White barriers surrond your inner being. Nowhere to get out. Nowhere to hide. ... Lost. Lost is the hope of people. Your very own fibre of being, stuck in the mountain of terror. You cannot see, but you cannot feel. What cannot be seen, little holds this room.
Pain. You see the grass. The grass turn to rock. The rock turn to dust. The dust turn to rust.
Rust. Your body aches for freedom. But you cannot see what is in front of you. Rusty is the metal gates. Bearing it's longing for renewal.
Thought that all by myself. |
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moose1997
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| Joined: 04 Jul 2008 |
| Total Posts: 12502 |
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| 16 Jan 2012 09:45 PM |
and the difficulty ariseth from this, that at first sight, it is not manifest who is to appoint the successor; nor many times who it is whom he hath appointed. For in both these cases, there is required a more exact ratiocination than every man is accustomed to use.
-Leviathan
copy and pasted all by myself
Gappo gappo |
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| 16 Jan 2012 09:52 PM |
And from ashes, there grew an island. An island with no inhabitants but the land of yore, teems with the ever-placent grass. Life, transforms with such fury, man made. Man, walks the ground of fertility, mates with another. So begins the circle of life.
ALL IN MY HEAD |
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