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I was a better man back then.

Striving in the bosom of fear.

It was always there.

Like a soul craving spectre.

It’s my own demon.

I’ve carried it since I can remember.

I secretly despised those without the curse.

Pathetic breathers of tortured men’s air.

Who did not deserve an ounce of pain.

Crushed by it since my memory began:

dread of the ordinary life.

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