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Ink
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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Jun 22, 2014
His story was written in ink, symbols sprawled across his chest, words enscripted beneath the skin. A permanent nightmare was engraved onto his body. Lies intertwined his veins. This was not a story to be told, but a secret to be kept, his life was not to be known. But when carrying a heavy weight for what seems like eternity, at one point you must fall, and be crushed by your past. He was a living book that was never to be read.
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Held together by the seams of his leather bound book, their love wrote black and white on crisp paper, all in which he wrote for the girl he could admire, but never fall for. But stories had a way of writing themselves, and hearts had a way of falling. cover by myself unedited

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