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The bane of one's existance

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The bane of one's existance Unrequited demure Pulsating frustration The cold stare of one's own reflection. Ah, romantics do have the Plague of Ages To be pained with stoics And thus drive the dagger of Indifference The dramatically Excruiating Near-eternal Collapse and disentegration Of one's own soul It scratches at the nerves And rots from within So thus, a stoic is now born.





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