Contempt loves the silence, it thrives in the dark. With fine winding tendrils that strangle the heart.
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Each of us, a cell of awareness, imperfect, and incomplete. Genetic blends, with uncertain ends, on a fortune hunt that's far too fleet.
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You run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking, racing around to come up behind you again. The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older, shorter of breath and one day closer to death.