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To learn more, or to at least find the offering - the desire to find the belief that holds my mind in it’s womb and keeps me from finding the truth. This is the problem with the idle youth. I never found the ulcer, nor did I find the wonderful kind of platform. These days I just happen upon clarity and know that I need to try to write clearly, hoping that someone will read it and help me through the troubled days with their mind, not talking to me, just pushing my mind with theirs. This silence harms me, and I can find hope somewhere within it.

Goodness always hurts me before I cry. I want to learn and be good, I want to do the right things, but I have fallen short on a number of occasions. My mind is made to be a sort of silent number, crestfallen and fouled by the scent of the happiness of others. I suppose we are happy. I suppose we are better now than we ever were before, and that is allowing me to find hope within a dull flame caused by music and ambient purchases.

This is the practice writing that article was telling me about. This is the shapeshifter and the pen. This is the pace at which I desire the letter. That is so worded, because it is special and causes harm half the time. There is the space we can work in, but why do I wish to be confusing? I like the sound of words sometimes, not just the meaning. I want to work, I want to continue the growth the shepherd began so long ago. There should be a sight for that, to get cheaper cards for learning. Perhaps I am the problem. I am the boy with the problem, remember?
I forget now what that problem is.

The problem is the curse of pouring foraged music on to the case. The beginning is the censorship, the silverware is the curse. No, that cannot be subtle, the case was misplaced near the Impala driven by the rather charming young man who paid me money to sit and wait for him. There is the shelter, never mind the clearing in the line. These are the poured cements of literature, here in the clearing. These are the letters to God.

Perhaps I should read to God, because the shelter is my home. This is the happiness that I find within the walls of my home - made to be here now, no other place than home. Where are the classic examples of watering cans and shadow people. I cannot place the house anywhere better than that. I was here without the shadow coming from the better place. I can cry out about my past troubles, my mistakes and shames, but there is no point in that. I’d be better off exclaiming my rewards and triumphs.

These are the ramblings of an insane person, thusly: There is a shape I belong to, simple as that might be, and these shapes are not the shapes that I usually belong to. When asked, this misplacement of occupation is accompanied by literal jumps of begging mercy. All this because of a head injury at 3 and a heavy drug habit by 20. It makes me want to cry. There is no sense to keep running in circles, and I must be pretty egocentric to think that anyone cares.

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