I wished to share a piece that I had written earlier tonight. Instead, I am sharing this. I am sharing nothing. I think it’s better for now that I share nothing, because what I’m going to share later might be the best ever written in this world.
Well, that has always been my problem. I am inherently violent. I was born with hot veins, and it’s only after three decades that I’ve been able to calm my nerves. But what’s the relationship between me being violent and me not sharing what I think is the best that I’ve ever written? No idea. Maybe there is a similarity between the two. Maybe both are worthless to the world and of the most worth to me. My anger and my words have saved me. I haven’t cared much about the rest of the world. I have done my shit and I have done it well and the world around me took care of itself. I do whatever saves me. It’s not that I am afraid of dying. I just think it’s imperative that I’m kept alive for the sake of keeping the good in check. Too much goodness, too much kindness, too much care, too much love and the world will collapse.
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