My interior monologue beckons me to return to my bed, but my spirit calls me to my laptop. Like me, my laptop feels a little sick and tired of its own mechanics; worn from the inside out, it yearns for the oblivion of turn off mode. Six hours, however, is too long to have been turned off and, now, it is time to run.
I run from the shadows of an injured mind, I run from a life by which I have been vistimised. I run, and yet I do not hide. For, in life, consciousness will suffice, our imprints may fade, but our souls will survive. Like a bride blushing beneath the spotlight of her own status, I am nothing, but am vast within. A fragment of the universal psyche, in the bossom of my intertexuality, I am unique.

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