Sometimes a stir of memories is more than just that, it is a thing more tangible and enrapturing than this feeble semblance of existance we call reality.
I am swept up into this undertow.
In the end, maybee I'll be wrong, perhaps finding that a stir of memories is just that.
I'm just another house hold product. Im not the savior, I'm something much more vile. No Jesus here, just my own personal Anti-Christ with which I scour my soul
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