Burkewood
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Colors are trapped under my skin and before I sleep they bleed out through holes in my existence. Who am I to deny them the pleasure of whispering their deranged memories into the ears of strangers. Who am I to care. What my thoughts say at the small hours before dawn are not for me to question. I stopped trying to figure them out years ago. If you find meaning, so be it.
- Updates will be sporadic, i'm doing my best.
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