Don't we all just want to fucking be HEARD? Don't we want to believe that how we feel fucking matters, that our experiences have not been for fucking nought, that we might having something to fucking SAY?
Fuck if I know, I'm trying to figure out why I keep ramming my head into the fucking brick wall.
I'm like fucking Whoville from the fucking dust speck: We are HERE we are HERE we are HEEEEEERRREEEEEEEEEEEEE. But I keep getting my dust speck fucking boiled.
Fuck.
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After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.
Walt Whitman, US poet (1819 - 1892)
Last edited by Sirensong12; 02-19-2010 at 07:07 AM..
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