Is it a pity then to have formed the words when they no longer held any meaning? To finally found a reason to live but discovered it too late. To have found comfort only to be burned again. To realized a dream but no longer able to achieve it. To have known love but lost it along the way.

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Little Fears

Tales of whimsy, humor and courgettes

unbolt me

the literary asylum

The Bipolar Writer

James Edgar Skye

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