PULL-HOUSE
Four walls, one floor...
a room without a light...
i feel like my body is touched by
cold...
the more i live the more i feel numb...
a slow pace ignorance of myself...
isolation is what i belong, decarnation
is the concept of myself...
There is no beach, no park to sit and
think.
Just a ship and no soil
there is no exit there is no help for
the wicked.
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