My heart feels encased in leather; so few things really move me now. The thick dullness of medicated equilibrium has made me into a bland, pragmatic coper, with a measured temperature that hovers between nine and three o´clock.
The days of despair are a distant memory, but then so are the crisp, incisive shards of ice that draw fresh red blood, awaken nerve endings and call forth a cry. It's always high summer, baking sun, and dryness. Soporific, shoot-suppressing, thirst-inducing.
This is a survival mode, but can there be any growth?
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