A blank expression across my face so I've feeling like a disgrace to the human race. And the persistence of existence is exhausting me while the sentiments of memories are haunting me. But at least I think I'm more than my regrets; my mistakes, the pills I take, and every cigarette. Impeding doom always assumed to be on it's way. But introversion's my diversion from this sense of decay. Reflections showcase my imperfections. And I can't even recognize myself. And the tension of perpetual suspension from cycles of living life as someone else.
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