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It’s the faint smell of desperation that clings to my body like a second skin. It’s the clever turn of phrase that eludes me more and more these days. It’s the steady undercurrent of doubt that makes most of my decisions unsound. It’s the frustration of craving sudden found joy in everything else.
Surely, this goes beyond the ennobling of ennui. Or maybe, this is ennui in its purest form, and I’m ill-equipped to handle it. One thing I’m sure of, every bit of my being is riddled with anguish.
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