I have lost count of all the nights that went on their own; the hopes that blent well to the darkness of this room. The past months haven't been themselves and sitting for a long toil (if not a toil itself), it bears down on me what's become of my self in years. It's childishly easy to say I haven't been myself as well. But how long should one stick to the good past knowing well that the future is never guaranteed? I'd probably sleep faster than knowing what could have been. What else would this night bring?
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