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Once I thought I was a dreamBut it was just my lifeI thought myself into existenceJust an ancient whisper undefinedMaybe I just forgotBut my scars bea..
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Just read it
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Writing is a dying art form, the world has become overly PC obsessed and real individualism is lost. Like Kerouac, the only ones for me are the mad on..
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A new one that addresses the maladaptive social trend Ive seen planting its infecting roots in modern life, people not caring about anybody but themse..
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