One more mistake was made, stop, the one in which I let you know that I had made a mistake. Stop. If we could tarry in the underground and persue the equivocal decisions we made, stop, things would be different. Stop. But I don’t know if this can happen. Stop. I can blame it on whatever I want, stop, but at the end of the day, I’m not strong enough to grab your hand and, stop, at least lead you in the direction I’d like just to see you follow. Stop. Just to see. Stop. Just because this makes everything different. Stop.


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