And it’s so claustrophibic to be with myself. I can put the distance between them and I, but never cross this river that’s cutting myself into me and I.

So claustrophobic to be me and having to obey to all these feelings that keep going through my heart.

Thoughts and hopes passing by, leaving their mark in my soul, indelibles.

Who could ever understand another one if he’s not in his head?

This secret garden is growing in weeds and I lost my shears.

I think I’m gonna open the window and breath the breeze.

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