My sister's hatred on me is like a breakfast orange juice. It's a common notice among people that western idea, or maybe like a cereal. But I am not that, of course I am not. Though declaring what I am to her idea is some kind of narcissistic birth. Maybe I have had lived as this narcissism, like a name. Like a hidden subtle name to be called out by irking faces.
I think a sleep makes them a different. I've touched candles as they burn, and as it dries while I don't see it's residues, I feel it. Is that how we see people? Is that how we connect? I am just sleepy right now.
I don't know how to get rid of myself. I've pretended like an out of work actor. I've method acted the way out this pretend. Pretend, then I'm pretentious. I can see the world's tries ignoring death except for their own. One, two, three is a disorganized pattern. Words are my tries. Words are my tries. I'll write my manifesto soon.
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