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Pensées de Lorenzo
It was late but he refused to go to sleep again. Another late, dull and soundless night, empty of any feelings save the despair brought to him by his monotone, grey and sadly incipient life. He had spoken to some of his best and indeed only friends that kept in touch with him. Talking to them his discourses would lead onto topics of maladies that he personally suffered; or at to the very least, he would often try to tell them of such things. It was no simple task, the quintessential handicap of his state was his unknowing and untamed perception of himself and of the domain that seemingly surrounded him.

No goading of the heart could force this feeling into any folly.

He had long since admitted to himself that his current friends weren't truthful to him. They wouldn't admit it but he knew, through indications that he patronizingly observed, that they acquainted with him through curiosity and self benefit. It had also been a long time since he had admitted that he lost his closest and indeed greatest friends he could ever have, long ago through his periods of bipolarity. But there were small things that kept him going.

Small things, indeed.





 
 
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