Go, a little effort. Take the pencil with liberating the mine on paper immaculate. And slowly draw long arabesques and elegant in its awkwardness. Bedtime words like you on the mattress of your anxieties, and run ink as the tears from your eyes. Writing, again, again and again.
If you do not want to cry because of your shame, then write. Filled the pages of all this filth filthy, all that crap that you fouled more. You can even insult you, write you you're a little idiot, the paper and the words you forgive. They keep the secret. It is between you and them, between the book and your mood. You may feel scorn, hits full Fouer like a bullet in the heart of an animal having just (re) raise.
But the core is solid and the ball temporarily. Only the scars remain.
It's like when you're going to walk, while the wind icy breath until thee bone chilling. He could make you sick or kill you, but then breathe out loud to use this wind to move and live.
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