(Draft pages)

Words, so many lost words, so much strangeness. Always this strange feeling and it’s always following me, telling me, pushing me, no, stop, keep going and why? Because, it says, the best is yet to come, but it never seems to. Not even close to anything yet. Maybe just like America and the World, maybe I’m not even close to anything, let alone that something, that something of the unknown that I’m searching for with these words, and maybe only closer to death than anything else. Such strangeness, alone, looking at death in the eyes, with these words.

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