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The pen was in my hand,

Unmoving as I thought.

Thought of all that had happened,

And of all that had not.

Browsing through the memories,

Digging deep into the layers,

Shuffling through the tunnels,

Till I was left, all but bare.

My life lay in front of me,

As clear as day could be,

And yet as I began to write,

The pen stayed in my hand,

Unmoving as I thought.

Thought of me, myself and I,

But write I could not.




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