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i smile but im not really happy.
i talk but im not saying anything.
i laugh but i don't really find it funny.
i cry but it doesn't really mean anything.
i get up but im not really awake.
i sleep but im not resting.
im alive but im not really living.


Autobiography, if there really is such a thing, is like asking a rabbit to tell us what he looks like hopping through the grasses of the field. How would he know? If we want to hear about the field on the other hand, no one is in a better circumstance to tell us-so long as we keep in mind that we are missing all those things the rabbit was in no position to observe.