viernes 3 de mayo 2019
our last living dog is sleeping under the bed that I can’t manage to get out of i’m starting to think it’s pointless to keep asking the pain “why?” just swim with it tomorrow might be better if you can’t swim, sleep but keep writing just in case you find words that rekindle your self-worth maybe self-help poetry is pathetic but staring at the blank page feels less lonely than the ceiling
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