At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
I'm not singing for the future I'm not dreaming of the past I'm not talking of the fist time I never think about the last
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I'm not singing for the future I'm not dreaming of the past I'm not talking of the fist time I never think about the last
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