horrid post

we're all just disgusting fleshy protrusions.

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Happy sentiments don't warrant posts. You begin with bliss--a child's world. It's not until adolescence that you become acquainted with more complicated forms of sorrow. That's when life becomes interesting and poignantly unfulfilling--the assertion of the poetic.

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Meaninglessness tails my every move, idea, and interlude. Always. At work, with friends, while sleeping. Always. There's no penetration, no escape from truth.