At some points, threre will always be doubt. At others, there will always be malice. I am awake, my feet are cold.
there seems to be some sort of erhereal disconnect between me and my inspiration. See, I know life is more well than unwell because i feel no underlying sense of worry or spite or unrequited love sick blues to drive these musings. All I've got is this:
I'm so insanely content with life right now I almost want to laugh in its face!
Except for the fact that the Dodgers aren't going to make the playoffs, but who didn't see that one coming?
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