Slices of ice spread thread through my solace
Like the electricity of two thousand synapses sending impulses furiously
And instantaneously.
I am the impulse. This is the essence of life.
I've uncovered the main nerve that leads to the sincerity in a lover's heart,
Or the teary in-futile refuge which a stranger lost in the depths of their own horrific depression seeks within them-self.
I am the lover. I am in an ever-growing relationship with the world.
I am the stranger. I have sought refuge in the peacefulness of literature and the art of my penmanship while crying my fears away in my own desperation to win the race that humanity is so fiercely engaged in.
Here comes the hypocrisy. But somehow life is still beautiful.
My life is not without the color of a intense sunset
In the hour of today's wonderful Renaissance [/b]
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