A Collection of Spectacles

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I can’t place enough emphasis on how sorry I am and how tired I am of overusing the “self centered pronoun.” Here it is I I I I I. Me and all my faults, a bitch that looks inward. What a depressing package of posts, for when I’m at my best, I refuse to string out my feelings. As a sidenote though,  a miniscule asterisk below the last few sordid rants, I have felt tides of happiness reach, grazing my limbs, extended.  One day, soon, I should try and articulate the moment when it is there, instead of obsessively reexamining where it once was before, brooding and lamenting over the faint traces.  I’ll write about the dark club, and the hot cold ness of my body with the occasional addition of added weight, the feeling that my flesh was stinging from the inside out, the teasing of short lasted hints of stereotypical physical pleasure, and the achievement of mental separation, at a later date.

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