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♟️I wipe my soul on the empty pages of my notebooks. They become stained as the words conjure up in my imagination the escape I long for. Yet, despite the enamoured romps between the ink and the paper, I am always locked before the gates of imagination. So conceited of myself, I desperately long for the sweet, ephemeral nectar that is inspiration. For reality is nothing but a continuous reminder of the miserable state of my existence. A state I despise with all my might. ♟️