The echoes of my own voice tell me lies;
and under the sorrows of this snow of leaves
travels a soul burdened by a million sighs.
Supposed to be reading Woolf's "To the Lighthouse." Nin's "Four Chambered Heart" so much better. Exhausted anyway-how can the weekend be over already?
And when did I trade my dreams for ambitions? When did I stop being (mostly) angry...
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