Life either kills you
and takes away your
rifle or gives you the
only the chance in the world.
…And then he was gone.
Life either kills you
and takes away your
rifle or gives you the
only the chance in the world.
…And then he was gone.
Yes a writer’s fate is but an echoing child mourning the loss of their childhood and bleeding poetry. Words are abundant but poetry is rare. And the latter is but an extensive charm to silence the loss and chance of shadows, while entering a gloaming rich in light.
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