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"No etched variation through low days or high.
The spirit corrodes, narrow dreams stain with rust, Proud Apathy burns, too cold even to cry, with
scornful dejection, displeasure, disgust, ignoring a warning, scowls– mute– in reply."
Call it blog, weblog or an online journal. It is bare bones right now but you'll find my
opinions on a variety of topics as well as links to other things on the web that I find interesting.
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Death severing the body's link to one's soul.
Something to ponder about; how would you feel about your exsistence in such a moment?
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