Hat-trick.

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It’s all fun and games, until it’s not.

Funny how hurt boils up all this poisonous crap inside one’s little heart. It’s a chore and a half trying to morph this into something bigger, better, something to power whatever else. One can only hope the recycling is a quick process. Why not use it as fuel? The practicalities, of course, might turn out to be a bit more complicated… but I’ll give it a good shot. Bitches be adaptable. For anything to hold fuel, however, the container has to be fixed first.

Oh whatever, life can go fuck itself for a bit now. Pardon the vulgarity, but when one gets hurt three times in a rather short period of time, it makes one a bit erm, edgy. Metaphorical punching oneself in the stomach is in order. I guess people learn from their own stupidity. It’s always good to remember that really shitty things happen for a reason, and once you’ve reached the bottom, it can only get better. One door closes, another opens and a thousand other clichés.

It’s gone really quiet all of a sudden. The silence is deafening. At least there are the halcyon skies to drown into.

But hey! Look at the sunset my new ghetto flat provides. Pardon the slant, couldn’t be arsed to straighten it.

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And at least there’s music. Thank god for music. Simon darling delivered just when needed the most.

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