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If the broken glass pieces left behind from the night and the atrophied hearts are left from me, the desire to be read to tomorrow is to free my soul, of course, whatever I can't digest.
There are scavenging pains, it's like an Ottoman slap from yesterday when it was a sultan's edict, and I'm a self-made person who is the work of an educator father, but my troubles with myself are just as cheeky as a kitten that runs away under the table every time I burden myself with no limits, but what a shame to be loved. I do not demand from people, nor do I tell them to their open faces, that I cannot easily pronounce love and love as I am an embarrassed being.
How was I before? What I loved the most was shouting, my love for humanity and my friends would hardly get me down from the teacher's chair, after all, I was very much as tall as my legs, to go up to the podium and declare my love for people.
What about now?
My words, of course, that I have stored for a lifetime in the deep freezer of my heart: a, yes, and thousands of records stored in my lower memory, I have already achieved my existence on the road to the past.
It was decimal before all my fractions.
But I couldn't afford it.
Then, what's up, I rolled one by one, and of course I rolled, then my path crossed with zero and swallowed me with his huge existence. The person who swallowed me swallowed me and my Lord came to my aid while I was calculating how to get out of the belly of the whale.
Everything is fine, but I don't know what will happen to me after that. Most of all, I am busy with writing and the enchanted coexistence of recent times, while I and my destiny are not a story that I can't get enough of writing with my pen, but the possibility of writing dozens or even hundreds of stories that my heart grinds, and the thought of being able to write even when he enthusiastically addressed me.
Of course, the secret of everything is the cooperation of love and hope, my faith grows continuously, and sometimes the people I have grown in my eyes, while I am calculating how I can get through all this with my tiny existence, it is almost an account summary that I consult with my pen at the end of the day and is the most beautiful part of love, after I write with love, I love it even more. which I pronounce with a strong voice and which I spread widely.
There are general rules and there are also general rules accepted by societies, people and social sciences and I ignore all the rules with my crazy existence. Because of my being more conservative and conservative than everyone else, I easily put myself on the table and constantly think about where I made a mistake and I find myself questioning myself ruthlessly. It doesn't make much sense for the voice-over to question me… ah, I wish I could say that while I care about everyone more than myself, the value I give to myself is dealing with worthlessness, so it's only time to love myself.
Sometimes I feel like an adjective of an ordinal number and I can't determine what I will match with and every new thought and assumption I imagine leads me to very different worlds and neither the judge gives a verdict of acquittal in the open court where I am imprisoned, nor in addition I present what I feel in my hand, of course, until I have the pen in my hand. Until I get it or not writing it scares me more than death.
Sometimes my best man.
Life is hidden inside me.
My identity is both lost and hanging around my neck.
Every time I change dimensions to her, I say that it accompanies my soul with different expansions, I start everything from scratch and my only wish is to feel the infinity and somehow I achieve this.
Thousands of emotions and subtitles running through me.
Did I add the suffocating air outside?
Of course, pen, that subset of essence, thanks to all my senses and different variants, I overcome possible feelings and thoughts to myself, and I officially open wings to infinity, and most of all, as if it is not possible to live above the clouds, I actually live and keep this feeling and oscillation alive.
In your dark eyes I see the reservations of the nights.
I sent the rebellion to the trash.
Maybe the remnants of a crazy night, of course, everything that people with a crazy temperament poured into the streets and destroyed, when we wake up in the morning, we and the roads and sidewalks where the cleaning workers with their brooms are swept away, especially since the first day we started the normalization process, people have been more enthusiastic and lustful than before. While I'm past, I'm walking softly and meekly in my dreamland, and I'm filled with the desire to write without interruption, starting from an emotion and word that caught my eye in my dreamball, but it's such a harmless and self-contained occupation that this is exactly what connects me to life.