When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
But I was done trying to wake her up, to make her see. To save her. The only person I could save was myself.
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But I was done trying to wake her up, to make her see. To save her. The only person I could save was myself.
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The tragedy is that what you disapprove of in others is the very thing you disapprove of in yourself.
Today I am even richer.