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You think you fell out of the coconut tree?



I am at an absolute death. At an absolute death. But I am afraid of dying. But I don't want to be the best person. I can't keep up being a super good person like an everyday tick of a calendar. I can't be that constant sisyphus of Good, it's the only boulder this proverbial can't roll. I get so bad at writing. I get so bad at being. But I don't want to be bad, guilt knows something I don't. Guilt knows something that was not familiar with me. Though he himself is inside me. I'm wrapped up stickified lollipop-like of a guilt based substance. 

I blame my curly hair, I blame my asymmetrical face, I blame the bodies of other people, I blame my rotten brain, I blame it all on everything that is existing within and before the context of falling out of a coconut tree. I can't live, am I wrong to keep you here? am I wrong to think we can be healthy? am I wrong to think I can have you? am I wrong to think this life is not it? It's all everywhere, that my talks are repetitive, and the same that everything is. Or just give me funny lines, I can write you Bradshaw. It's what I'm watching now anyways, so It's what I am now. 

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