I see someone up there laughing at a bewildered-at-myself me and going -'Must have been careful about what you wished for'.
I look on dazed and fazed like a lost puppy.
Almost enough to justify self-pity.
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Ever in search of, ever striving and never quite reaching.
Pathetic low lives we are - ever stuck in the transit terminal.
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If you cannot worship the ideal, how can you love the process?
How can you feel the pain of that struggle bob in your veins?
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