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houses without lungs

The best thing I can do is leave without anyone knowing me. Kill the diary in its sleep. Feed the reptile squirming just below my hairline. My heart is irreparably broken by a service station in the sunset somewhere in Arkansas or Oklahoma. I wish there was a voice to tell me a story and help pass another night through the stars. How could these blankets ever keep me warm when the sun has failed so many times? I want to cure the breath that has disturbed the peace that once reigned in my lungs.

I have written too many entries tonight. After days of stale sunlight on a brick wall. After days of silence, houses without lungs.

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