Tonight, I Will Write the Weakest Words.

I am not a happy person but because of you, gradually, I am becoming one. Right from the start you know how brittle my heart is. Try to get through this. Guess, everything’s not in place. There’s something not enough to complete the refuge that I seek. False hope comes like a thief in the night step by step reaching for my nerves which seems to me as something significant. I really am not a happy person. When I melt, I melt like ice, never as its leadoff form again unless strained. I don’t know. This show on TV sucks now. I really am not a happy person. I can’t give in to any chocolates at sight right now. The sound of the evening wind speaks of the ills of society. The bright sky flaunts envy. The clink of beer bottles reserves the table for an unhealthy meet ups with angels. I really am not a happy person. The phone rings. Lights weird. Pillows hard.

Tonight, I have just written the weakest words.

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