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May 11, 2009 - Monday
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Current mood:Uncertain
To Certainty,
Bashful, the rising Sun has grown, intending to set, once confident
enough to stride. It's purpose, to exhale. And ours, to breathe. Fate
easily taunts intention, leaving time coasting in perpetual insomnia.
To exist, so scarce as our silhouettes, I thirst for a only a fragment
more. I implore only the breath deserved, as bare as the Opera, of what
once was. May we, imprint the moment to last, illustrious as to what is
eminent?
Sincerely,
Incertitude

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