My hair hangs down to my shoulders, ragged and blowing. It hangs into my face. I don't wish to know what I've become, and have long since destroyed every reflecting surface I could find. The particles still litter the ground beneath me, catching the flame's glare and reflecting it into my eyes. The shards fail to pierce my feet. They deprive me of the pain I thirst for to show I still live. That I am still human.
I don't think I am.
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4 comments:
"It was my pleasure. RPS appreciation will be a week long festival. This year all are exempt from overworking themselves on it. In the future though I see... Daily Postings, Daily Polls, and Daily Rantings! Reogan will be the Master of Ceremonies, while Met governs as Other Master of Ceremonies Who is not Reogan."
Whatever happened to this? :(
http://reoganworks.blogspot.com/2009/01/rather-pleasant-site-1st-post-365-days.html
Were there not daily postings?
I see your point, but whatever happened to remembering it? I don't recall a week long festival.
It's year-long now.
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