I shiver

Apart from indulging in the endless pile of works, I prefer to be blasted with bombs. Or
being hit by a taxi.

I see no life in me. I stared my eyes in the mirror last night. It was nothing short of a
pair of dull eyes, decorated with lots of furry eyelashes, ugly lines and spots of massive
pitch black bruises. It was like staring into the eyes of a grim-reaper. Insanely
terrifying.

I was afraid of that. Thoughts of being old and useless rushed into my head. Thoughts of
being stupid and moron and unabled to move with my own limbs surged my heart.
I don't want to die like that.

At least, give me a chance to die with a little respect worn on my body. Thinking of dying,
thinking of leaving all these, thinking of lying alone in the grave is surreptitiously
uncomforting.

I shiver.
.
.
.


God, give me time.

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