I sit here, only daring to dream in broken and fleeting instants about a life that I was ever-certain to inherit from destiny's winds; my mantle, a picture so clear that perhaps I never opted to imagine that it held the beauty of a perfect photograph, and, hence, was unrealistic
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I believe that you have it in you to break out of this crap. Yerch is right. Let Sid die an extravagant death. Let him burn himself out in a giant flame, fling himself from bridges in foreign countries, overdose in an opium den filled with writhing goth girls. Let that fucker die, honey, and then step out of the wreckage and ashes and finally start living.
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Anonymous commentary - insightful and tipping of the hand; clearly someone who knows of the Prague Impulse, as it were - as well as my penchant for goth babes.
So, if I know you, why don't you let yourself be known?
Unclear.
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